Whose tones were those that now rose so clear and silvery on the still, frosty air? Was I doomed to die with Daphne's voice ringing in my ears? She thought, perhaps, that I was in the library listening to her voice, and she was singing with more than ordinary power and sweetness. How quickly her joy would have turned to terror had she but known my real situation!
"Aha!" screamed the maniac, so loudly that it could scarcely fail to attract the attention of those without. "Aha! The spirits! the spirits! I knew they would be here. They visit me every night. They know the work that is going on here. Listen—listen—listen to their voices! They are singing your requiem. How bravely they chanted at the foot of the grey old cliff the night I flung old Matteo over! What rare music! Ah! here they come, sliding down the moonbeams! God! what a throng!" he exclaimed, springing up excitedly and striking at the empty air, which his delirium was peopling with phantoms. "Off! off! Do you not see them? One cannot move—breathe in this atmosphere!"
My confused mind heard as in some weird dream fragments of his mad ravings mingling fantastically with the words of the carol:
Christ was born on Christmas Day,
Wreathe the holly, twine the bay,
Christus natus hodie.
The Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary,
He is born to set us free—
Laus Deo! the band that connected my two wrists gave way. I was free! And at the same moment the first stroke of midnight chimed from the village steeple.
At that sound the artist snatched up the dagger from the table, and turned towards me.