The Count, the Count Rudolpho, who had been missing since the unhappy affair, now came forward to speak out the truth, and upon whose silence the cowardly Liza had relied.
It is a comfort to know that a libertine need not necessarily be a liar though he very frequently is: and in this especial case Count Rudolpho spoke the truth. He declared the whole tale from beginning to end, and, doubtless, he would have appealed to Liza for corroboration, but that, that discreet person got out of the way.
As for the lover, who still so deeply loved, that he was actually going to marry a woman for whom he cared naught as a revenge, he would believe nothing that the count said. Indeed, how could the girl have entered the inn, if not with the count’s aid.
The noble pointed to the unused bridge, but Elvino scouted the idea; why it would fall at the least touch, how then could she have passed over it?
The count was turning away in despair, when a noise a little distance off arrested his steps; the villagers turned and saw the village phantom, and they saw at once who it was.
Again, Amina was walking in her sleep; again she was moving towards the old ruined bridge; again she carried a flickering light in her hand.
As Elvino saw her, all his old love returning, he ran forward and would have shouted to her, but that the count sped after him, laid a hand upon his mouth, and softly, yet imperatively, bade him be silent.
The lover flung himself upon his knees, stretched out his arms towards his pure wife, and with straining eyes watched her coming.
Nearer to the old bridge—which was rotten, and below which was a roaring torrent. Nearer still, then one foot was upon it.
All silent with fear they drew back a pace, as though each had stepped upon the tottering wood, or as though he could prevent her second step by the act.