The curiosity and pity of every one, as they gazed on the loveliness of the beautiful culprit, was strongly excited.
“Who is she? who is she?” ran in inquiring whispers round the apartment. No one could tell.
Again deep silence reigned—not a whisper interrupted the appalling calm.
At last the superior, in a sternly solemn voice, said—
“Matilda Contessa di Laurentini, you are here arraigned on the murder of La Marchesa di Strobazzo: canst thou deny it? canst thou prove to the contrary? My ears are open to conviction. Does no one speak for the accused?”
He ceased: uninterrupted silence reigned. Again he was about—again, with a look of detestation and horror, he had fixed his penetrating eye upon the trembling Matilda, and had unclosed his mouth to utter the fatal sentence, when his attention was arrested by a man who rushed from the crowd, and exclaimed, in a hurried tone—
“La Contessa di Laurentini is innocent.”
“Who are you, who dare assert that?” exclaimed the superior, with an air of doubt.
“I am,” answered he, “Ferdinand Zeilnitz, a German, the servant of La Contessa di Laurentini, and I dare assert that she is innocent.”
“Your proof,” exclaimed the superior, with a severe frown.