His horse had remained at some short distance.
Diaz soon reached it, and holding the bridle in his hands, walked slowly towards the spot where the river forked.
In the mean time the sun followed its eternal course—the shadows gradually contracted—the black vultures flew in circles above the heads of the four actors in the terrible drama the last scene of which was now drawing near. From the depths of the Misty Mountains, shrouded in vapour, might be heard, at intervals, dull rumbling sounds, like thunder, followed by distant explosions.
Pale, but resigned, the unfortunate Count de Mediana remained standing. Buried in deep reverie, he did not appear to notice the continually decreasing shadow.
All exterior objects vanished from his sight. His thoughts were divided between the past which no longer concerned him, and the future he was about to enter.
However, pride still struggled within him, and he maintained an obstinate silence.
“My Lord Count,” said Fabian, who was willing to try a last chance, “in five minutes the poignard will have ceased to cast a shadow.”
“I have nothing to say of the past,” replied Don Antonio. “I must now think only of the future of my race. Do not, therefore, misjudge the sense of the words I am about to speak. Whatever may be the form in which it may come, death has no power to terrify me.”
“I am listening,” said Fabian gently.
“You are very young, Fabian,” continued Mediana, “and the thought of the blood that has been shed will therefore be so much the longer a burthen to you.”