Her murderer stood before her, as if astonished at what he had dared to do. “Lie there, thou bleeding victim,” he said, at length pausing to contemplate his bloody work. “Thou hast thought it no wrong to violate thy faith—to make a jest of the most sacred ties. Men have been thy victims: now take the due reward of all thy wickedness. What art thou, that I should have idolized and gazed with rapture on that form?—something even more treacherous and perverted than myself. Upon thee, traitress, I revenge the wrongs of many; and when hereafter, creatures like thee, as fair, as false, advance into the world, prepared even from childhood to make a system of the arts of love, let them, amidst the new conquests upon which they are feeding their growing vanity, hear of thy fate and tremble.”
Saying these words, and flying with a rapid step, his dagger yet reeking with the blood of his victim, he entered the town of Belfont, at the entrance of which he met St. Clare, and a crowd of followers, returning from the last meeting at Inis Tara. “Hasten to the castle,” he cried, addressing all who surrounded him; “sound there the alarum; for the heir of Altamonte is found; Lady Margaret Buchanan is murdered.—Hasten there, and call for the presence of the duke; then return and meet me at the chapel, and I will restore to your gaze your long forgotten and much injured lord.” The people in shouts re-echoed the mysterious words, but the darkness of evening prevented their seeing the horrid countenance of the wretch who addressed them. St. Clare alone recognised the murderer, and fled. Viviani then returned alone to the chapel.
CHAPTER CII.
The carriage which had conveyed the Duke of Altamonte and Colonel De Ruthven from Colwood Bay could not proceed along that narrow path which led across the wood to the chapel; they were therefore compelled to alight; and, hastening on along the road with torches and attendants, they enquired repeatedly concerning the loud shouts and yells which echoed in every direction around them.
They were some little distance from the chapel, when the duke paused in horror.—The moonlight shone upon the bank, at the entrance of the beech trees; and he there beheld the figure of a female as she lay extended upon the ground, covered with blood. Her own rash hand, he thought, had perhaps destroyed her. He approached,—it was Lady Margaret! That proud spirit, which had so long supported itself, had burst its fetters. He gazed on her in surprise.—He stood a few moments in silence, as if it were some tragic representation he were called to look upon, in which he himself bore no part—some scene of horror, to which he had not been previously worked up, and which consequently had not power to affect him. Her face was scarce paler than usual; but there was a look of horror in her countenance, which disturbed its natural expression. In one hand, she had grasped the turf, as if the agony she had endured had caused a convulsive motion; the other was stained with blood, which had flowed with much violence. It was strange that the wound was between her right shoulder and her throat, and not immediately perceivable, as she had fallen back upon it:—it was more than strange, for it admitted little doubt that the blow had not been inflicted by herself. Yet, if inhumanly murdered, where was he who had dared the deed? The duke knelt beside her:—he called to her; but all mortal aid was ineffectual.
The moon-beam played amidst the foliage of the trees, and lighted the plains around:—no trace of the assassin could be observed:—the loneliness of the scene was uninterrupted. A dark shadow now became visible upon the smooth surface of the green—was it the reflection of the tree—or was it a human form? It lengthened—it advanced from the thicket. The shapeless form advanced; and the heart of man sunk before its approach; for there is none who has looked upon the murderer of his kind without a feeling of alarm beyond that which fear creates. That black shapeless mass—that guilty trembling being, who, starting at his own shadow, slowly crept forward, then paused to listen—then advanced with haste, and paused again,—now, standing upon the plain between the beech wood and the chapel, appeared like one dark solitary spot in the lonely scene.
The duke had concealed himself; but the indignant spirit within prompted him to follow the figure, indifferent to the fate that might await on his temerity. Much he thought that he knew him by his air and Italian cloak; but as his disguise had entirely shrouded his features, he could alone indulge his suspicions; and it was his interest to watch him unperceived. He, therefore, made sign to his attendants to conceal themselves in the wood; and alone, accompanied by Colonel De Ruthven, he followed towards the chapel. There the figure paused, and seemed to breathe with difficulty, slowly turning around to gaze if all were safe:—then, throwing his dark mantle back, shewed to the face of Heaven the grim and sallow visage of despair—the glazed sunken eye of guilt—the bent cowering form of fear.—“Zerbellini,” he cried, “Zerbellini, come down.—Think me not your enemy—I am your real friend, your preserver.—Come down, my child. With all but a brother’s tenderness, I wait for you.”
Arouzed by this signal, a window was opened from an apartment adjoining the cloister; and a boy, lovely in youth, mournfully answered the summons. “O! my kind protector!” he said, “I thought you had resolved to leave me to perish here. If, indeed, I am all you tell me—if you do not a second time deceive me, will you act by me as you ought? Will you restore me to my father?” The voice, though soft and melodious, sounded so tremulously sad, that it immediately awakened the deepest compassion, the strongest interest in the duke. He eagerly advanced forward. Colonel De Ruthven entreated him to remain a few moments longer concealed. He wished to know Viviani’s intention; and they were near enough to seize him at any time, if he attempted to escape.
They were concealed behind the projecting arch of the chapel; and whilst they beheld the scene, it was scarce possible that the Italian should so turn himself as to discover them. By the strong light of the moon, which stood all glorious and cloudless in the Heavens, and shone upon the agitated waves of the sea, the duke, though he could not yet see the face of the Italian, whose back was turned, beheld the features of Zerbellini—that countenance which had often excited a strange emotion in his bosom, and which now appealed forcibly to his heart, as claiming an alliance with him. Let then the ecstasy of his feelings be imagined, whilst still dubious, still involved in uncertainty and surprise. Viviani, having clasped the boy to his bosom, said in an impassioned voice these words:—“Much injured child, thou loveliest blossom, early nipped in the very spring-time of thy life, pardon thy murderer. Thou art the heir and lord of all that the pride of man can devise; yet victim to the ambition of a false and cruel woman, thou hast experienced the chastening rod of adversity, and art now prepared for the fate that awaits thee.
“Albert,” he continued, “let me be the first to address thee by that name, canst thou forgive, say, canst thou forgive me?” “I know as yet but imperfectly,” said the boy, “what your conduct to me has been. At times I have trusted you as a friend, and considered you as a master.” “This is no time, my dear boy, for explanations—are you prepared? At least, embrace the wretch who has betrayed you. Let these tainted and polluted lips impress one last fond kiss upon thy cheek of rose, fair opening blossom, whose young heart, spotless as that of cherubims on high, has early felt the pressure of calamity. Smile yet once on me, even as in sleep I saw thee smile, when, cradled in princely luxury, the world before thee, I hurled thee from the vanities of life, and saved thy soul. Boy of my fondest interest, come to my heart, and with thy angel purity snatch the fell murderer from perdition. Then, when we sleep thus clasped together, in the bands of death, ascend, fair and unpolluted soul, ascend in white-robed innocence to Heaven, and ask for mercy of thy God for me!”