"Is this George's work?"
A warm breath on my cheek checked the reply I was about to make. I turned. Daphne was at my side, her hands raised, her eyes dilated with horror, and her figure swaying like a young sapling in the breeze. Unperceived by myself or her father, she had followed us to the road—had seen the dead man, the damnatory evidence, had caught her father's whispered words. A scream such as I shall never forget broke from her, and before I could catch her in my arms she had dropped at my feet, a white senseless heap. Her voice, like a death-cry, rang over the moonlit valley, awakening countless echoes from the sleeping rocks, and mingling with the mournful refrain of the monks:
"REQUIEM ÆTERNAM
ET LUCEM PERPETUAM
DONA MORTUO, DOMINE!"
CHAPTER XI MORE OF THE PICTURE
We had not expected to see Sir Hugh Wyville until the following Christmas, which we were to spend as his guests in Cornwall. It chanced, however, that he too was taking a Continental tour, and joined our Rhine steamer at Cologne. He was delighted to see his old schoolfellow, my uncle, and arm in arm with him paced the deck in friendly converse, talking of the old days at Eton.
Daphne's beauty made a great impression upon the Baronet, and he inquired the reason of the sad look on her face, a look that had become habitual since that terrible night at Rivoli. So my uncle related her story to him, finishing with an account of the mysterious circumstances that had attended our stay at Rivoli, to all of which the Baronet listened with deep interest.