 | CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET
OF GOLD. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
2. CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET
OF GOLD.
THE WARRIOR AND THE MAIDEN.
In a lofty apartment of the castle, hung with
rich folds of crimson tapestry, and designated from
time past memory as the Red-Chamber, on a
couch of gorgeous hangings, lay the once muscular,
but now disease-stricken, Julian, Count of
Albarone, shorn of his warrior strength, divested
of the glory of his manhood's prime.
The warm sunlight which filled the place, fell
with a golden glow, over the outlines of his lofty
brow indented with wrinkles, the long grey hair
parted on either side, the eye brows, snow-white,
over-arching the clear, bold eyes, that sent
forth their glance with all the fire and intensity
of youth, rendered more vivid and flame-like by
the contrast of sunken eyelid and hollow cheek.
And by the bedside of the warrior, bending like
an angel of good, as she ministered to his slightest
wants, the form of a fair and lovely maiden, was
curls, fell lightly, and with a waving motion, over
the rich bloom of her cheek, glowing with the
warmth of fifteen summers, and her full, large
eyes of liquid blue, gleamed with the expression
of a soul, whose fruits were pure and happy
thoughts, the blossoms and the buds of youth and
innocence.
“Annabel,”—said the warrior, in a voice faint
with disease—“Methinks I feel the strength of
youth again returning, the sleeping potion of my
good brother, Aldarin, has done me wondrous service.
Assist me to the casement, niece of mine
heart, that I may gaze once more upon the broad
lands and green woods of my own native domain
of Albarone —.”
As he spoke, the Count rose on his feet, with
a tottering movement, and had fallen to the floor,
but for the fair arm of the maiden wound around
his waist, while his muscular hand rested upon
her shoulder.
“Lean upon my arm, my uncle,—tread with a
careful footstep. In a moment we will reach the
casement.”
They stood, within the recess of the emblazoned
window, the warrior and the maiden, while
around them floated and shimmered the golden
sunshine, falling over the tesselated stone of the
pavement, throwing a glaring light around the
hangings of the bed, and streaming in flashes of
brightness along the distant corners and nooks
of the Red-Chamber.
“'Tis a fair land, niece of mine,—a fair and
lovely land”—
“A land of dreams, a land of magnificent visions,
overshadowed by yon blue mountains of
romance. Look, my uncle, how the noonday sun
is showering his light over the deep woods that
encircle the rock of Albarone—yonder, beyond the
verdure of the trees, winds the silvery Arno, yonder
are hills and rugged steeps, and far away tower
the blue heights of the Appenines!”
“And here, niece of mine, in my youthful
prime I stood, when my aged father's hand had
dubbed me—knight. 'Twas such a quiet noonday
hour, on a calm and dreamlike day, as this, that
from the recess of this window, I gazed upon yon
gorgeous land. How the blood swelled in my
youthful veins, how dreams of ambition fired my
boyish fancy, as the words broke from my lips,—
Here they ruled, my fathers, in days bygone
with the iron-sword of the Goth, here they reigned
as sovereign princes—as Dukes of Florence.'
”
“Since that noonday hour thy sword has
flashed in the van of a thousand battles!”
“It has—it has! And yet what am I now?
Old before my time, swept away from the path
of glory, as I neared the goal! A warrior should
never utter a word of complaint—and yet—by
the Sacrament of Heaven, I had much rather
died with sword in hand, at the head of my hosts,
than to wither away with this festering wound on
yonder couch! I like not to count the pulsations
of my dying heart.”
“Nay, my uncle,—chide not so bitterly. Thou
wilt recover—thy sword will again flash at the
head of armies!”
“My sword, Annabel, my sword,”—cried the
warrior, as his eye lit up with a strange brilliancy,
and his wan features were crimsoned by a
ruddy flush.
In a moment, the fair hands of the maiden bore
the sword from its resting place, in a nook of the
Red-Chamber, with a slow and weary movement,
as though the massive piece of iron she trailed
along the marble floor, exceeded her maidenly
strength to lift on high.
“It is my sword, it is my sword”—shrieked the
warrior, as he flung the robes of purple back
from his muscular, though attenuated shoulder
and raised his proud form to its full height—
“Look, Annabel, how it gleams in the light! So
it gleamed on the walls of Jerusalem, so it shone
aloft over the desert-sands of the Syrian wilderness!
It will gleam over the battle field again!
Age, again will the snow-white plume of Julian
Di Albarone, wave over the ranks of the fray,
while ten thousand warriors, hail that plume as
their beacon-light!”
He swung the sword aloft in the air, his whole
form was moved by excitement, every vein filled
and every pulse throbbed, his eye flashed like a
thing of flame, and his whitened lip trembled
with the glorious expression of battle-scorn.
Thrice he waved the sword around his head,
when the wild impulse of his sudden excitement
died away, his eyes lost their flashing brightness,
his limbs their vigor, and Julian of Alberone, tottered
as he stood upon the marble-floor, and stepping
couch of the Red-Chamber.
“The goblet, fair niece—the goblet on the
beaufet.—Haste thee—I am faint.”
As the words broke gaspingly from the sick
man's lips, the Ladye Annabel turned hastily to
bring the goblet, and as she turned, she beheld
the head of Lord Julian resting uneasily on his pillow,
while his left arm hung heavily over the side
of the couch.
She turned again with trembling footsteps, and
hastened to arrange the pillow of the sick warrior.
Her fair hands smoothed the pillow of down, and
she gently raised his head from the couch.
At the very instant, the tapestry in a dark corner
of the Red-Chamber rustled quickly to and
fro, as a figure muffled in a sweeping cloak of
crimson, emerged into view, and treading across
the tesselated pavement, with a footstep like a
spirit of the unreal air, it approached the beaufet of
ebony, and a white hand, glittering with a single
ring was extended for a moment over the goblet
of gold.
The Ladye Annabel placed the head of Lord
Julian, gently upon the pillow of down.
The glittering ring shone in the sun, as it fell
in the goblet of gold, and the hand of the figure,
white as alabaster, was again concealed in the
thick folds of the crimson robe.
The Ladye Annabel, with her delicate hands,
parted the grey hairs from the sick man's face,
and swept them back from his brow.
The figure in robes of crimson, strode with a
noiseless footstep across the apartment, and
sought the shelter of the hangings of tapestry,
with as strange a silence as it had emerged from
their folds.
Without taking notice of the white dust that
covered the bottom of the empty goblet, Annabel
filled it with generous wine, and approached the
bedside of her uncle. The Count raised himself
from the pillow, and lifted the goblet to his lips.
As his wan face was reflected in the ruddy wavelets
of the wine, he fixed his full large eyes upon
the lovely face of Annabel, with a look of affection,
mingled with an expression, so strange, so
solemn and dread, that it dwelt in the soul of the
maiden for years.
He drank, and drained the goblet to the dregs.
“Thank thee—fair niece—thank thee.”
He paused suddenly, his arms he flung wildly
from him, a thin, glassy film gathered over his
eyes, a gurgling noise sounded in his throat, and
he fell heavily upon the couch.
His features were knit in a fearful expression of
pain and suffering, his mouth opened with a ghastly
grimace, leaving the teeth visible, the lips
were writhen with a quick convulsive pang, and
his eyes sternly fixed, glanced wildly from beneath
the eyebrows woven in a frown.
“My uncle—my father,”—shrieked the Ladye
Annabel, rushing to the bedside—“Look not so
wildly, gaze not so sternly upon me. Speak my
uncle, oh, speak!”
Her utterance failed, and an indistinct murmur
broke from her lips. Her hands ran hurriedly over
the brow of the warrior—it was cold with beaded
drops of moisture. She bent hastily over the form
of Lord Julian, she imprinted a kiss on his parted
lips. She kissed the lips of the dead!
Then the tapestry, the hangings of the Red-Chamber,
the couch, with its ghastly corse, all
swam round her in a fearful dance, and the Ladye
Annabel fell insensible on the floor.
The great bell of the Castle of Albarone tolled
forth the hour of noon. The shadow of death
had been flung across the dial-plate in the castle-yard.
While the thunder-like tones of the bell, went
swinging, and quivering, and echoing among the
old castle halls, a footstep was heard without the
Red-Chamber, and the door was flung suddenly
open.
A young Cavalier, with a face marked by frank
open features, locks of rich gold, and an eye of
blue, while his handsome form was clad in a gay
dress of velvet, entered the apartment, and strode
with hurried steps to the couch.
He cast one look at the face of the corse, marked
by the ghastly grimace of death, he cast one
quick and hasty glance at the form of the Ladye
Annabel, thrown insensible along the floor of
stone, and then he covered his face with his trembling
hands, and his manly form was convulsed by
a shuddering tremor, that shook the folds of his
blue doublet, as though every sinew writhed in
agony beneath the gay apparel.
The heavy sob, which unutterable anguish
alone can bring from the heart of a proud man,
broke on the deep silence of the room, and the
trickling between the clasped fingers, pressed over
his countenance.
“He is dead—my father—he is dead!”
He mastered the first terrible impulse of grief,
and raised the swooning maiden from the floor.
THE ACCUSATION.
“He is dead—my father”—again sounded the
husky voice of the Cavalier. “Thou, Annabel,
art all that is left to me—I am—”
“A murderer—a parricide!” cried a sharp and
piercing voice, that thrilled to the very heart of
the cavalier.
He turned hurriedly as he grasped the maiden
with his good right arm, he turned and beheld,—
the Scholar Aldarin.
His glance was fixed and stern, while with one
hand half-upraised, with his thick eyebrows woven
in a frown, he stood regarding the Cavalier
with a look that was meant to rend his very heart
of hearts.
“What means this outcry in the presence of the
dead!” exclaimed Adrian in a determined tone—
“Let our past disputes be forgotten, old man, in
this terrible hour. See you not, my father lies
stark and dead?”
“Murdered by thee, vile parricide!”—rang out
the voice of the Signior Aldarin, as with a determined
step he advanced to the bedside—“Ho!
Guards, I say”—he shouted, raising his voice—
“Vassals of Albarone, to the rescue!”
The eye of the young Cavalier flashed, his brow
was knit, and his form crected to its full height
as he spoke in a quiet, determined tone.
“Look ye, old man, thou mayst taunt and gibe
with thy magpie tongue, as long as the humor
pleases thee. My father's brother need fear no
wrong from me—this maiden's father can fear no
harm from Adrian Di Albarone. Heap taunt on
taunt, good Signior, but see that this spirit of insuit
is not carried into action. I am lord in the
Castle of my fathers!”
“Father, what mean those wild words, these
looks of anger?” shrieked the Ladye Annabel, as
she awoke from her swoon of terror, and supported
by the arm of Adrian, glanced round the scene—
“Surely my father, you speak not aught against
Lord Adrian?”
And as she spoke, the chamber was filled with
men-at-arms, in their glittering armour, and servitors
of Albarone, all attired in the livery of the
house, who came thronging into the apartment,
and circled round the scene, while their mouths
were agape, and their eyes protruding with astonishment.
Aldarin glanced around the throng, he
marked each stalwart man-at-arms, each strong-limbed
yeoman of the guard, and then his chest
heaved and his eye flashed as he shouted—
“Seize him, men of Albarone, seize the murderer
of your lord!”
He pointed to Adrian Di Albarone as he spoke.
There was one wild thrill of terror and amazement,
spreading thro' the group, a confused
murmur, bursting involuntarily from every lip,
and then all was still as death.
Not a man stirred, not a servitor moved, but
all remained like statues, clustering round the
group in their centre, where Aldarin stood with
his slender form raised to its full stature, his arm
outstretched and his eye flashing like a flame-coal,
while Adrian gathered the Ladye Annabel
in his good right arm, and gazed upon the Signor
with a look of concentrated scorn.
“Seize him guards”—again shouted Aldarin—
“see the Parricide!”
There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and
the form of the stout yeoman emerged from the
group.
“Not quite so fast—marry, my good Signior,
not quite so fast”—he cried as he advanced. “By
St. Withold, I have followed my old lord to many
a hard fought fight, I have served him by night
and by day, with hand and heart, for a score of
long years. Shall I stand by, and see his brave
son suffer wrong?”
“What means this wild uproar?” exclaimed a
calm yet half-indignant voice, as the stately dame
of the Lord Di Albarone, yet unaware of her bereavement,
crossed the threshold with a lofty
step and an extended arm, advancing with the
port of a queen, to the centre of the group. “Vassals—what
means this wild uproar? Know ye
not that your lord lies deadly sick? Brother Aldarin,
I take it ill of you to suffer the clamor!
What can our liege of Florence think of ye, vassals,
when he beholds ye thus assail the sick
chamber of your lord with noise and outcry!”
The stately dame, pointed to a richly attired
cavalier, who had followed her into the apartment.
He was a well formed nan with a face marked
by no definite expression. His dark hair, gathered
in short, stiff curls around a low and unmeaning
forehead, his small dark eyes protruding from
his faintly delineated eyebrows, the nose
neither aquiline, classic, or Judaic, seemed composed
of all the varieties of nasal organ, his upper
lip was garnished with a portion of the wiry
beard that flourished on his prominent chin, his
lips were thick, and sensual, while his entire
face was as inexpressive as might be. The
throng bowed low, as they became aware of the
presence of the guest of their late lord. They
bowed to the Duke of Florence.
“Adrian, my son,” cred the Lady of Albarone
turning to her son in utter amazement, “what
means this scene of confusion and alarm!”
Adrian took his mother by the hand, and led
her to the couch. He spoke not a word, but waved
his hand toward the couch. Her form was concealed
for a moment amid the hangings of the
bed, and then a shrick of wild emphasis startled
the ears of the bystanders.
“He is dead,” exclaimed the Lady of Albarone,
in a voice of unatural calmness, as she again appeared
from amid the hangings of the bed, with a
face ghastly and livid as the face of death, “Vassals
of Albarone, your lord is dead!”
There was one wild thrill of horror ran around
the group, and the Lady of Albarone, sank leaning
for support upon the arm of her son, while
Annabel in the intervals of her own sobs and
sighs, whispered hurried words of consolation in
her car.
Aldarin stood regarding the group with a glance
of deep and searching meaning. He gazed upon
the vacant features of the Duke distended by surprise,
the countenance of Adrian marked by a settled
frown of indignation, the visage of the Countess
livid as death, and then the fair face of his
daughter Annabel, her eyes swimming in tears,
the parted lips and the cheek pale and flushed by
turns, met the glance of Aldarin, and a strange
expression trembled on his compressed lip, and
darkened over his high forehcad.
“Lady of Albarone,” exclaimed the Scholar, advancing.
“Lady of Albarone, my brother died not
thro' the course of nature, he died not by the hand
of disease, he was murdered!”
“Murdered!” repeated the Countess with a hollow
echo.
And the Duke took up the word, echoing with
a trembling voice, that word of fear, “murdered,”
while the Servitors of Albarone sent the cry shrieking
around the nooks and corners of the Red-Chamber.
Adrian of Albarone looked around the scene
and smiled as if in scorn, but said not a word.
Aldarin made one stride to the couch of death.
“Behold the corse,” he shrieked, “behold the
blackened face, the sunken eyelid and the livid lips,
behold the ghastly remains of the Lord of Albarone!”
Another stride and he reached the beaufet. He
seized the goblet of gold, and held it aloft.
“Behold,” he cried, “behold the instrument of
his murder!”
“God save me now,” shrieked the Countess.—
“There has been foul work here—Adrian—oh,
Adrian, thy sire hath been poisoned!”
“This is some new mysterie, Sir Scholar,” exclaimed
Adrian with a look of scorn.
The Lady fell insensible, and the goblet rung
with a clanging sound upon the marble floor,
while from its depths there rolled a small compact
substance, encrusted in some chemical compound
white as snow in hue.
The Duke of Florence stooped hurriedly to the
very floor and seized both the goblet and the encrusted
substance, with an eager grasp.
“Ha! There is a white sediment deposited at
the bottom of this goblet. Albertine advance;
thou art skilled in such mysteries. Tell me, Sir
Monk, the nature of this white powder.”
THE BLOODHOUND SALADIN.
The monk Albertine, whose dark eyes had for
a moment been gleaming over the shoulders of the
bystanders, now advanced with a slow and measured
footstep, and confronted the Signior Aldarin,
with a look full of meaning and thought. Aldarin
returned the look, with a keen and searching
glance, and their eyes then mingled in one long
and ardent gaze, as though each man wished to
read the heart of his fellow.
With a look of calmness and perfect self-posession
Albertine turned to the Duke and took the
goblet from his hand.
He gazed at its depths for a moment, he was
about to speak, when the heart of every man in
the Red-Chamber was thrilled by a wild and terrific
howl, more fearful even than the yell of the dying,
that proceeded from among the curtains of the
death-couch, and echoed around the apartment.
“That sound,” exclaimed Aldarin, with a nervous
start; “That sound is from the couch of death!
It means, it means—”
A ruddy glow passed over his pale countenance,
and suddenly pausing he gazed round the group
in silence.
“It is the poor hound of our good Lord;” muttered
Robin the Rough, advancing. “The hound,
with skin black as death, which Lord Julian
brought from Palestine—he is howling over the
dead corse of his master. So have I heard him
howl for three days past, as the castle-bell tolled
the hour of high noon, beside the panels of yonder
door. Come hither brute; come hither Saladin.”
The hound, black as night, with an eye like
fire, came leaping through the throng and crouched
whining at the feet of the stout yeoman.
It was, in sooth, a noble hound, with full chest,
slender limbs, long neck, and tapering body,
marked by all that delicacy of proportion, that
beauty of shape, and grace of motion, which tradition
ascribes to the bloodhounds of the Eastern
lands. The head was like the head of a snake,
while the eye seemed almost instinct with a human
soul.
“Sir monk,” cried the Duke, in an imperious
tone, “were it not better for thee to tell us at once
whether the white powder in the goblet is poison?
or shall we wait thy pleasure while thou dost
weary thine eyes with gazing at yonder hound?”
The monk Albertine made a solemn inclination
of his head, and kneeling on the marble floor in
the centre of the group, he struck the edge of the
goblet upon the tesselated stone with a quick and
sudden motion of his hand.
The diamond-shaped stone of black marble was
strewn with the white sediment deposited in the
bottom of the goblet.
The hound sprang forward, and while his wild
eyes flashed and blazed, his nostrils dilated and
the sable animal snuffed the atmosphere of the
Red-Chamber, as he leaped quickly around the
group.
“He snuffs the smell of human blood!” muttered
the stout yeoman.
And while all was intense interest and suspense,
while a mingled feeling of surprise and terror and
nameless fear ran around the group, while every
eye was fixed upon the kneeling form of Albertine,
with the goblet upraised in his hand, the hound
Saladin passed from man to man, scenting the
garments of the bystanders, and glancing wildly
from face to face, from eye to eye.
He paused for a moment in front of the Signior
Aldarin, and uttered a low whining sound as he
gazed in the scholar's face.
“How long is this mummery to last?” exclaimed
Aldarin, advancing with a sudden step—“Tell
me, sir monk, is thy study over?”
The hound Saladin sprang suddenly aside from
the robes of the Signior and eagerly snuffing the
marble floor approached the monk Albertine, and
with a wild howling sound licked the white substance
from the diamond-shape stone.
“Is it poison?” asked the Duke, and the interest
of the group clustered around became absorbing
and intense.
“Some new mysteric of thine, learned scholar”
exclaimed Adrian Di Alberone, with a smile of
incredulity. “The man does not live, so false in
heart as to place a death-bowl to the lips of a warrior
like Julian of Albarone!”
“Is it poison!” exclaimed Albertine, gazing
round upon the group—“Behold!”
And as he spoke, the hound Saladin fell stiffened
and dead, upon the marble pavement, with a
single fearful struggle, a single terrible howl.—
His limbs were fearfully distorted, and his eyes
were starting from their sockets, while a thin white
foam hung round his serpent-like jaw.
There was one quick yell of horror thundering
around the apartment, and then you might have
heard the footsteps of the Invisible Death, all was
so fearfully silent and still.
“As God lives, my father has been murdered!”
shouted Adrian Di Albarone, as the expression of
incredulity lately visible in his manly face changed
to a look of pallid horror—“Now by the Sacrament
of God, he shall be avenged as never was murdered
man avenged before! “Who,” he shricked in
a husky voice, turning to the throng—“Who hath
done this murder?”
“Sir Duke,” exclaimed Aldarin, as though he
had not heard Adrian, “the encrusted substance
which fell from the death-bowl may be poisonous—”
THE SIGNET-RING—THE ROBE—THE SECRET
DOOR
The small white ball, which the Duke had absently
clenched in his fingers, fell to the floor, and
every ear heard a ringing sound as it fell, and
every eye beheld the fragments splintering as it
touched the floor. The whole substance had
vanished, and along the floor there rolled a massive
signet ring, glittering with a single ruby.
The Duke of Florence stooped hastily and again
grasped the ring; he held it aloft, and shouted with
a tone of amazement and horror—
“It is the ring of the murderer, dropped by accident
into the death-bowl! It bears a crest and
an inscription—look Signior Aldarin—can'st make
out crest or inscription?”
Aldarin replied with a look of horror—
“The crest, 'tis a Winged Leopard—the motto
—`Grasp boldly, and bravely strike!' Both crest
and motto are those of Albarone”—his voice sank
to a deathlike whisper—“Lord Adrian—behold—
it is, it is the signet ring of Albarone!”
Aldarin turned with a voice of fierce emphasis—
“Thy question has its answer—let the signet-ring
tell the tale. Adrian, oh, Adrian,” he con
tinued as his voice changed with mingled compassion
and anguish—“what moved thee to this
fearful deed? Oh, that I, a weak old man, should
live to see my brother's son accused of that brother's
murder!”
“This is some damning plot!” calmly responded
Adrian, though his chest heaved and swelled with
the tempest aroused in his soul—“Tell me, Sig
nior Aldarin, what were the contents of the `soothing'
potion administered by thee to the late Lord
Julian at day break?”
“Tell me, good Albertine, thou didst aid in its
composition, and thou can'st witness when I gave
it to my murdered brother.”
“I aided in its composition—it was harmless.—
I saw thee minister the potion to Lord Julian.”
“Thou alone, Aldarin, thou alone has had access
to this chamber since daybreak”—spoke Adrian,
with his calm eye fixed full on the Signior's visage
—“Now tell me who it was that drugged you bowl
with death?”
“Balvardo, thou didst stand sentinel at yon door
from daybreak until high noon—did a soul enter
the Red-Chamber from the first moment to the
last second of thy watch?”
“Not a living man”—muttered the hoarse voice
of Balvardo from the crowd—“not a soul save the
Ladye Annabel.”
“Search the apartments!” shouted the Duke
“the assassin may be yet lurking in some dark
nook or corner!”
The doors were closed, the search commenced.
Every nook was ransacked, every corner thrown
open to the light, not even the bed of death and
its pillows of down and its hangings of purple was
spared.
While the search was in progress, the Countess
of Albarone awoke from her swoon, and striding
from the recess of an emblazoned window, where
the Ladye Annabel remained glancing with a vacant
look over the strange and terrible scene progressing
in the Red-Chamber, she was soon made
aware of the fearful crime charged upon her son,
the signet-ring and the terrible mystery.
“There is mystery,” she cried with a proud
voice, “there is mystery, but—no dishonour!—
Who can believe Adrian Di Albarone guilty of so
accursed an act!”
“For one, I do not!” bluntly cried the stout
yeoman.
“Nor I!” cried one of the servitors, and the cry
went round the apartment.
“Nor I”—“nor I”—“He is guiltless.”
A wild and prolonged shriek from a nook of the
Red-Chamber near the death-couch sent a sudden
thrill through the group assembled in this terrible
mystery.
Every form wheeled suddenly round, every eye
was fixed in the direction from whence issued the
shriek, and the aged Steward of the Castle was
seen upholding with one trembling hand the folds
of the gorgeous crimson tapestry, while as his aged
face grew livid as death, he pointed with the other
hand to a recess beyond.
“A secret passage—the door, cut into the solid
wall is flung wide open—a robe laid across the
threshold—a robe of crimson faced with gold.”
And as he spoke he flung the hangings yet farther
aside, and the bright sunshine gleamed over
the panel of the secret door, flung wide open, the
crimson robe thrown over the threshold, but no
beam lighted up the gloom of the passage beyond.
The Lady of Albarone rushed hurriedly forward,
she seized the robe, she held it aloft in the
sunbeams, and—every eye beheld the robe of
Adrian Di Albarone!
“Adrian!” shrieked the Countess, “Adrian of
Albarone—yonder secret passage leads to thy
sleeping chamber—thy departed sire, myself and
thou, alone were aware of its existence. It has
ever been a secret of our house. Tell me, by yon
murdered corse, I implore thee, tell me who flung
this door open, who laid thy robe across the threshhold?”
Adrian passed his hand wildly over his forehead
and with a cry of horror fell lifeless upon the
floor.
| CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE WHITE DUST IN THE GOBLET
OF GOLD. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |