Baptisto turned, and fixed his great black eyes on those of the clergyman. “Senor, what do they say in your own church? ‘In the midst of life, we are in death!’”
As he spoke, he pointed upward solemnly. Santley started as if stabbed. Then for the first time he began to understand. The dreary bell, the servant’s suit of black, the man’s unaccountably solemn and mysterious manner, all seemed to point to some horrible fatality.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Is any one dead? Who is it? Speak—tell me——”
Baptisto paused, still fixing his eyes on Santley, and preparing to watch the full effect of his words.
“Alas, senor, my mistress! my poor mistress!”
Santley staggered back, and his face, which had before been very pale, became livid.
“Not dead! no, no!” he moaned.
“Senor,” replied the Spaniard, “it is true. She died last night.”
Alas, the blackness of the wintry sky! That dreary darkness of the earth, the snow-wrapt woods! Before that woeful message, delivered so sadly yet so impressively by the Spaniard, the last brightness of the light seemed to fade away! Though the bell had ceased to toll, its dull vibration seemed still to ring on the air! The clergyman staggered back, his heart stopped; for a moment he seemed about to faint, and he had to clutch the doorway of the chapel for support. Baptisto saw the movement, but made no sign; even if the other had been falling to the earth, indeed, he would have offered him no assistance.
With one hand upon his heart, as if some sharp pain was there, the clergyman struggled for speech. At last it came.