There, before his very eyes, in front of the sable tent, stood a youthful form, clad in a dress of glittering white, his arms folded on his breast, while with his face drooped on his bosom he gazed fixedly at the visage of Aldarin, and as he gazed the night-wind played with the floating locks of his golden hair.
“Behold, behold, men of Albarone,” shouted Aldarin, with a wild laugh of joy, “your lord hath arisen from the dead! Before your eyes he stands, calm and mighty; youth in his heart, and power on his brow! Ha--ha--ha! I did--I did slay him! But I have raised him from the sleep of death! Behold--ha, ha, ha!--behold!”
A breathless stillness followed his words.
“Slave of thine own wild delusion,” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword, as he advanced, “thou art gazing upon the form of Adrian Di Albarone.”
“The avenger of his father’s blood!” shouted the form, advancing to the light. “Murderer, behold thy doomsman.”
Aldarin bowed his face low on his breast, and veiled his eyes in his hands, while a sound like the death groan rattled in his throat. His was no common agony. His was no mortal sorrow. His bosom trembled not with the throes of grief for the wife stolen by death, or the child torn from his embrace by unknown hands; the tears he wept were not visible tears, pouring from his eyes along the furrowed cheek. No, no.
His soul wept within him, tears such as giant souls alone can weep, when a mighty THOUGHT is slain, when the IDEA of a life is crushed.
“Avengers of your lord, advance,” shrieked Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; “advance, and seize the murderer!”
Aldarin turned; a thought flashed over his soul.
Three minutes of the last hour yet remained. The sands of the glass had not yet fallen. That little shred of time gained, he might yet complete the charm; the mystic age of toil might yet be rewarded by the immortal boon.
He flung himself at the feet of Sir Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword; yes, yes, the proud and unrelenting Aldarin threw his form prostrate on the cavern floor, and, with upturned gaze, clutched the knees of the knight.
“Give me, give me but three minutes of life--three minutes alone, and then ye may lead me to the death.”
The knight trembled: he had been prepared for scorn and defiance, but not for tears.