on entering the house i found my uncle looking over a packet of letters that his valet had just brought from rivoli. daphne was cutting open the envelopes with a paper knife. no one would have thought from her quiet demeanour that she had just been the recipient of a passionate love appeal.
"how well women can conceal these things," i thought, dropping despondently into a chair.
"oh, papa, here is an envelope with a seal as big as a florin. who is it from?" daphne's curiosity gave her no time to observe the niceties of grammar. "do read it."
my uncle settled his glasses on his nose and examined the letter.
"it is from an old schoolfellow, hugh wyville," he said. "he has just succeeded to the baronetcy and is now sir hugh wyville, and master of a splendid property in cornwall. silverdale abbey is the name of his place. he wants us to spend christmas with him. it's a little early for the invitation, but i suppose he wants to forestall all other invitations. he says—it is shocking writing; he ought to get a secretary—he says he will take a great interest in my slaughter. what the deuce does he mean? slaughter? oh, i see—daughter. that's you, daphne."
"much obliged to him, i'm sure, papa."
[pg 144]
"he is now in paris buying pictures. says his gallery alone is worth a visit to cornwall, and he is adding to it still. well, what shall we say to the invitation, daphne? shall we accept it?"
"what do you say, frank?" she said.
"i say, yes," i answered. "christmas at an old abbey ought to be delightful."
"then that is settled," my uncle said. "i'll write to him to-day." and being a man of his word, he wrote.
"there are to be all sorts of sports at rivoli this afternoon," he announced at luncheon—"archery, musical contests, dances, and i don't know what else. would you like to see them, daphne, or are you too tired?"
she pleaded that she was, but would not hear of our remaining at home on her account, and as my uncle seemed to expect my company, i set off with him to the town, conscious that i was a little unchivalrous to daphne in doing so.
on our way through the valley i paused to admire a cottage of firwood perched on a crag overhanging the road.
"that is the house in which angelo said his old nurse lives," said my uncle, looking at it with interest. "let us give a call."
"what for?" i asked, surprised.
"well, i am curious to know what his explanation of that affair in the cathedral is, and he might refer to it; indeed, i don't see how he can avoid doing so."
we ascended some steps roughly cut out of the solid rock, and entering a porch over which a vine clambered, we tapped gently at the door. it was opened by the old woman who had offered her good services to daphne in the cathedral. the moment she[pg 145] saw us her face assumed a hard expression, and contrary to the hospitable spirit usual in the district did not invite us inside but kept us standing at the door.
"what do you want?" she demanded curtly.
"we want to see mr. vasari, if he is at home," my uncle answered civilly. "we are friends of his. perhaps you have heard him speak of mr. leslie. i am mr. leslie."
"angelo is not here. he has left for england."
"what? without saying good-bye to us?"
"he left by the diligence two hours ago."
"so soon? do you know why?"
"why?" she flashed out. "ask this boy here!" and she turned to me with a lowering brow. "but for you he would have won the love of the english lady. but for you he would have been saved from—from—"
"from what?" i said eagerly, too eagerly i suppose, for she shook her head as if she took a pleasure in withholding the information she was about to give.
"i will tell you nothing," she said. "he can live without your pity. go! after all, she is a protestant, and all protestants go to hell. father ignatius says so."
"that is our ultimate destination, i believe," said my uncle with a sigh, due rather to vexation at finding himself unable to get the information he wanted than to proper regret at his future doom. "we are a wicked lot."
"can you tell us why father ignatius refused angelo the mass?" i asked. "that looks as if the good father were not any too confident about him."
her eyes blazed at the suggestion.
"i will tell you nothing," she said again, and closed her lips tightly as if she feared that her thoughts might assume material shape and make their escape[pg 146] against her will, if her mouth were ever so little open.
"we shall gain nothing by staying here," my uncle remarked. "madame, i wish you a very good day," with which words he led the way down to the road again, and we resumed our journey to the town, wondering what it was from which the artist might have been saved, and how daphne's love could have saved him from it.
"we may see your aged friend from dover to-day, if we keep our eyes open," my uncle said presently. "the sports are sure to draw all the people out of doors."
"we may see paolo too," i replied. "it is strange that he did not turn up last night as he promised, and strange that he wasn't at mass this morning; at least if he was i did not see him."
"not at all strange, if father ignatius has ordered him to avoid us."
"why should he do that?" i asked in surprise.
"you remember paolo breaking off from us suddenly, because, as he said, some deacon was watching him?"
"i do—serafino he called him."
"that's the name. well, it's not at all improbable that this serafino told ignatius that, immediately after his retirement to the sacristy with the old man, certain strangers began to question paolo, giving him money. thereupon ignatius sends for paolo. 'paolo,' he demands ex cathedra, 'what did these strangers say to you?' perhaps threatening to dismiss him from his post, or, still more, threatening the poor fellow with excommunication, if he should refuse to disclose his knowledge. paolo blurts out the truth, and lets the padre know that we are deeply interested in learning what the old man's confession was about. whereupon[pg 147] the reverend father, not at all desirous of our becoming cognisant of statements given under the seal of the confessional, delivers judgment: 'paolo you have done very wrong. give up those silver coins to your holy mother the church; and as a penance recite to me next holy-day the 119th psalm, and remember to keep out of the way till these strangers have left rivoli.' i may be wrong, but it's my opinion that something of this sort has taken place."
we were soon within the streets of rivoli. all the inhabitants seemed to have turned out of their homes, and by the merriment of their talk and the brightness of their gala dresses were contributing to the gaiety of the scene.
the centre of attraction was the market-place, where picturesquely-clad hunters and shepherds were displaying their skill with the rifle to admiring and applauding crowds. these sons of william tell did not receive from us the attention that their feats deserved, for our eyes were continually wandering from them to scan the faces of the spectators. paolo, however, and the nameless old man from dover were not to be seen.
from the sweet singing-contests in the cathedral we wandered to the meadows outside the town, where youths and flower-crowned maidens danced, wreathing and twining in pretty figures on the greensward, and thence back again to the town, peeping in each tavern, resonant with jollity and song, and odorous with the fragrance of the fir-cones that strewed the floor. but we could not find paolo or the mysterious old man.
tired at length of prosecuting a search that seemed to promise no success, we turned our attention to the innocent diversions, which were protracted till the moon, rising above the shining snows of the mountain-tops, [pg 148]projected the shadow of the cathedral belfry across the market-place. the white light silvered the quaint gables, was reflected from the diamond panes of many a casement, and, mingling with the glare of the torches carried by some of the crowd, produced a picturesque and romantic effect.
the sweet carillon of the cathedral bells, pealing forth the quarters, warned the people that midnight was drawing nigh, and gradually the throng began to disperse. imitating their example my uncle and i directed our footsteps homewards. groups of peasants and shepherds passed us on the way, some singing gaily, others winding with their horns the melodious "ranz des vaches."
as we turned to quit the road for the mountain-path, the cathedral bell chimed the first stroke of midnight.
"twelve o'clock!" exclaimed my uncle in a deep, tragic voice. "now is the time when elves and fairies trip it on the greensward, and spirits rise from yon haunted well. come, let us sit by it for a time and enjoy the ghostly revels. it is an affront to nature to sleep on such a night as this."
slowly the silver tongue from the belfry continued to toll forth the chimes with a solemn little interval between each. as the twelfth stroke died gently away, a peculiar sound, muffled by the distance, was wafted to my ears, seeming to my quickened fancy like the cry of a woman. whence the sound proceeded i could not tell. it might have come from the north; it might have come from the south.
"did you hear it?" i said.
"hear what?"
"a sound like a woman's scream."
we both listened for a few moments, but the sound, whatever it was, was not repeated.
[pg 149]
"your fancy," my uncle remarked with a smile. "in such a place as this you will hear many ghostly cries, if you give your imagination rein. but don't let us turn in just yet. i've some good news for you."
wondering a good deal what the news would be, i followed him to the fountain. he found a seat on a mossy boulder close to the stone-work of the well, and leaning back against the trunk of a tree, proceeded to light a fresh cigar, as an indispensable aid to reflection.
the moon was now at its zenith, riding through a veil of light fleecy clouds. around us at the distance of a furlong towered an amphitheatre of rocks, and the jagged edges of this cliff sharply defined against the deep violet sky exhibited crags of fantastic shape like the towers and pinnacles of some genie's castle. it required but small aid from fancy to believe that the blast of a horn startling the midnight air would summon to these crags beings as wild and unearthly as ever crowded the haunted brocken on a walpurgis-night. no more appropriate scene could be imagined for the revelry of demons and witches.
the solemn hour and the wild legends connected with the spring contributed to invest the place with an atmosphere of mystery. the trees whispered secrets to each other: the waters rippled with a cold and ghostly sparkle. in the distance foaming waterfalls standing out in relief against a background of dark rocks glimmered like waving white-robed spirits with a never-ceasing murmur. the air seemed alive with the mystic "tongues that syllable men's names on sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses."
who that has visited a scene of deep beauty by moonlight has not felt an awe stealing over him, as if some unseen presence were by? such a presence[pg 150] seemed to be floating around us, whispering that we were on haunted ground. was it the far-off murmur of a cascade or the faint voice of some one calling for help that was wafted to our ears?
so firm was my belief that the sound was of human origin that i appealed to my uncle, who had been strangely silent.
"did you not hear a distant cry, as of some one in pain?"
"i thought so, but it must be fancy. let us listen again."
we were silent for a time, but there was no repetition of the sound.
"some shepherds calling one another," he said, resuming his cigar with a laugh. "we are becoming influenced by the superstitions of the place."
he seemed to have forgotten the communication he had promised to make, so i reverted to it.
"you were going to tell me a piece of news, i think?"
"ah! so i was. (if you wouldn't mind turning your head from me, frank; your eyes seem to have an unearthly gleam by this light. thank you!) well, here is my news. daphne had a proposal to-day. you can guess from whom."
"is that your news? then it is no news at all. i know it already."
"the deuce you do! how did you learn it?"
"i was present during the whole interview." i gave him an account of how i came to play the spy, adding: "how did you learn it?"
"she told me directly after parting from him. poor daphne! she was quite upset over it—crying, in fact."
"she might have spared her tears," i grumbled. "his love was not so disinterested that she need weep.[pg 151] my candid opinion is that the fellow is so mad over his art that it governs even his choice of a wife, and he selects daphne because he thinks her figure will serve as a model for some of his pictures." and i detailed to my uncle those utterances of the artist that seemed to bear out my opinion.
"a na?ve avowal, certainly. his mode of lovemaking was a fine example of 'how not to do it.' and so," he continued, after a brief interval, "daphne still hopes and dreams that george will return. absurd! i thought she had given up that idea long ago. however, let him return. he shall never have daphne—never!"
he said that last word in a decidedly emphatic manner, and scarcely had he said it when a startled expression crossed his face, the cigar dropped from his lips, and he looked nervously round in all directions.
"my dear uncle, what is the matter?" said i, amused at his alarm.
"didn't you hear a laugh?"
"a laugh? no! why, you are becoming nervous!"
never before had i seen my uncle looking so startled as he was at that moment. the one point of his character on which he prided himself was his disbelief in the supernatural. to see him trembling at a mere sound was a surprise to me. i had yet to learn that extremes meet. have there not lived philosophers who, denying the existence of ghosts, have nevertheless been so apprehensive of meeting them as never to enter a dark room without a light? my uncle's philosophy savoured very much of this character.
"bah!" he exclaimed, picking up his cigar from the grass after listening intently. "you are right. i am[pg 152] becoming nervous. well, i was on the point of saying——"
"that you will never allow george to marry daphne. why?"
"why? can you ask? is not the reason obvious? a man who could desert her on her wedding-day, sending a cold note to the effect that she must never see him more, forfeits her by that very act. good god! i become mad when i think of his conduct. remember daphne's thin, wasted figure and wan, wistful look last spring. she might have died. grief has killed people before to-day. he must have known how much her heart would be wrung by his conduct, and yet—never a word of explanation from him. no. if he were to return this very night, he should never have her—never!"
"i have often wondered why he took his departure so hurriedly."
"his reason must have been a very bad one if it could not be stated by letter even to his nearest relatives," replied my uncle, speaking in a very bitter tone, for naturally he could not be expected to think well of the man who had deserted his daughter, even though that man were his own nephew. "his flight was accompanied by very suspicious circumstances, you must admit, seeming to point to complicity with, if not to the actual perpetration of crime. he will never return, rest assured of that; and i told daphne to abandon the idea."
"what was her answer?"
"tears. 'look around you,' i said. 'you will soon find a worthier lover. frank loves you, and you know it.' and i launched out into your praises, for between ourselves, frank, there is no one to whom i would more willingly give daphne than yourself."
[pg 153]
i suppose i ought to have thanked my uncle for thus championing my cause, but i preferred daphne's love to turn towards me without being directed by paternal authority, so i merely said:
"what did she say?"
"she said that she could not so soon forget george, but that if he had not returned by a twelvemonth from the day he left—"
"that is, next christmas day?"
"just so; next christmas day. if he had not returned by then she would try to think no more of him."
"next christmas day! what a whimsical notion!"
"exactly. women are whimsical," returned my uncle, speaking as if he had had all the experience of a mormon. "well, she did not seem— what the devil's that?" he exclaimed with a suddenness that startled me.
the "airy tongues," that during the whole time of our conversation had never ceased to whisper mysteriously, had now changed to a series of deep and regularly recurring sighs. they were not the creation of our fancy. distinguishable from the murmur of the fountain was a sound as of some one breathing. it proceeded from a cluster of trees on one side of the spring.
too much surprised to speak, my uncle and i sat staring at each other without either will or power to move. then, shaking off the spell that lay upon us, we rose and stepped on tip-toe to the spot whence came the sound, moving cautiously and softly, as though within the grove some terrible dragon lay sleeping which loud footsteps might awaken. within the gloom created by a canopy of dense foliage we caught the gleam of something white. our eyes, [pg 154]unaccustomed at first to the darkness, could distinguish nothing clearly, but gradually the object of our attention resolved itself into the seated figure of a woman. i thought at first that it was the statue of some nymph, but the eyes, shining like stars, dispelled this illusion. four steps nearer, and i saw that it was no dryad of the grove or undine of the waters, but our own loved daphne. she seemed petrified with terror.
"good heavens, daphne!" cried her father. "what are you doing here at this hour of night?"
the only reply to this question was a continuation of the deep inspirations that had drawn our attention to her. fright had deprived her of the power of speech.
"she is recovering from a swoon," said my uncle. "what can have frightened her? daphne, dear, tell us what is the matter. all is well now. don't be afraid. tell us how long you have been here."
"how long? ah! a long time," she murmured, speaking like one in a dream.
a sigh of relief escaped her father's lips, for her reply seemed an assurance of her sanity, and his first thought had been that fright had turned her brain. her wild expression might well have given him this idea.
"tell me what is the matter, darling," he said, lifting her, and stroking her hair with a fatherly tenderness. "my poor little girl!"
she gazed fearfully around, as if dreading some awful vision. then closing her eyes with a shudder, she rested her head on his shoulder, and clung like a child to his embrace.
"have you not seen it?" she asked in a whisper.
"we have seen nothing, that is, nothing to be frightened at. come, open your eyes and look at me, darling. tell me all about it. what has frightened you so?"
[pg 155]
she was so thoroughly unnerved that it was a long time before she could be induced to talk at all. when at last she did reply her words were not a little startling.
"o, papa. i have seen george's ghost!"
my uncle shot a glance half whimsical, half nervous at me, for it was very odd that her explanation should have reference to the man of whom we ourselves had just been talking. but he affected a laugh of kindly scepticism.
"george's ghost, eh? and how could you see george's ghost when he isn't dead? how long have you been here, and why did you come at all?"
"i have been thinking of him ever since you went out," she said, after another long pause. "he has been in my mind all the time, and try as i would i could not get his face out of my thoughts. i wondered whether he were alive or dead, and at last i began to feel that he must be dead, or he would have returned before this, or would at least have written to me. to-night was so lovely that i came out partly to meet you, and i came to this well, and stopped as i was rather tired. and then i took off the ring he gave me, and—" she paused between each sentence as if it hurt her to go on, but the mere fact of telling her story seemed to do her good, and she continued. "and i thought that as he had broken all his promises and cast me off on the very day fixed for our wedding, i would cast off his ring; and at last i made up my mind, and i threw it into the well. and presently i looked up, and there, on the other side of the well was—" she hesitated again, and clung closer to her father—"don't laugh, papa dear, it really was george's ghost."
"i'm not laughing," her father said. "tell me how he looked."
[pg 156]
"he was wearing the same dress and the same grey cloak that he wore the night he left me. he looked so sad, as if he had understood all that i had been thinking. i tried to speak, but in a moment he was gone. and then i screamed and turned to run away, but i suppose i fainted.—it was not fancy, papa. it was george's ghost. i could see the stars shining through him."
"well, well!" her father said, shrugging his shoulders, but still stroking her hair; "we will see whether you are of the same opinion to-morrow morning. you see, your mind has been full of him all day, and at last it has played you a trick, and you think you have seen with your bodily eyes what could have existed only in your imagination. sitting all alone at twelve o'clock at night, in this eerie place, i only wonder that you haven't seen half-a-dozen ghosts. when you are indoors by a bright fire after a second supper, you will laugh yourself at your fright. do you think you can walk all right now, if i give you an arm? come, that's splendid! the sooner you are away from this weird spot and out of this heavy dew, the better."
"did you say you threw the ring into the well, daphne," i asked, "or only that you were going to do so?"
"i threw it in," she replied; "but never mind, let it stay there."
"oh, but that's a pity," her father said. "you may be sorry afterwards, and it will not be difficult to recover it. have a try, frank."
"didn't you take it out of the water, again?" i asked.
"no."
[pg 157]
"then where is it? i am looking hard, but i can't see it."
we all peered into the fountain. there was plenty of light for the purpose, and we could see the sandy bottom of the well quite clearly, but the ring was nowhere visible.
"can't you see it?" said daphne anxiously.
i hesitated to reply as i did not want to add to her alarm, but as she pressed me i said as carelessly as i could—
"i don't see it in the water. you must have thrown it on to the grass;" and i began to feel among the moss and verdure that fringed the stonework of the well.
"no, it fell into the water," daphne said. "i heard the splash, and noticed the rings of water widening out before i looked up and saw—george! it must be there."
it was not to be found, however, either in the well or on the bordering grass, and we had to give up the search and make up our minds to go home without it. language is but a feeble thing to express the surprise we all felt, and i could guess from the expression on daphne's face something of her thoughts. in throwing away george's ring she had thrown away the pledge of her love for him, and from the mysterious manner in which it had disappeared it seemed almost as if the dead had accepted her renunciation.
i had long been familiar with the idea that at the point of death the disembodied spirit may appear to distant friends; and the thought now held me that the figure i had seen last christmas amid the falling snow at dover was the apparition of my brother, who had perhaps been seized with death in a manner secret and sudden. could it be that, owing[pg 158] to some telepathic influence exerted on him by daphne's mind, his spirit had been permitted to return to earth for a brief space to assure her of his death, and by vanishing with the ring that she was now free from her engagement to him? in the light of day and far from the scene of the event one may smile at this theory, but by that well in the ghostly moonlight, with daphne's terror fresh on me, and the ring gone, it seemed quite in harmony with the circumstances. the eerie sensation that had been creeping over my uncle and myself since we had taken our station by the haunted well deepened now to an indescribable intensity.
our interval of uneasy silence was brought to a close by a sound of many voices stealing faintly on the breeze—so faintly that we disputed at first what it was. the sounds drew gradually nearer, and their measured rhythmic cadence would have suggested a party of peasants returning home, but that the music had more the air of a solemn litany than of revelry. daphne, wondering what new source of surprise or terror was in store for her, clung trembling to her father. the place where we stood was elevated above the roadway, and we by and by saw winding along its course a procession of cowled and corded monks, marching two and two in solemn order, and chanting a mournful refrain. some bore aloft flaming torches, an act that, even in the excitement of the moment, i could not help thinking to be an absurdity, seeing that the moonlight made everything as bright as day. a few of the train were boys, and their silvery trebles made sweet contrast with the deep bass of their elders.
with bowed heads and measured pace the monks advanced, seeming in their grey robes silvered by the[pg 159] moonlight more like ghostly figures in a dream than living beings in a real world.
those at the head of the procession were carrying a bier upon which lay something covered with a cassock.
"a strange hour for a burial," said my uncle, "if burial it be. or are they carrying to the town some dead body they have discovered among the mountains?"
"o papa!" cried daphne, clutching her father's arm, and speaking in a broken voice, "can he have committed suicide?"
"who?"
"angelo! i remember his wild look when he left me. oh, if it should be——"
"no, no, you are frightening yourself without reason," said her father in a reassuring tone. "it is not angelo. can you not see? it is one of their own order whom they are mourning. they would not make such a lament over mere secular clay, i warrant you. stay here, and frank and i will ascertain who it is. you do not mind being left alone for a minute or two? no harm can happen to you. we will not be long. come, frank." and my uncle and i descended hastily to the road.
as this is a faithful autobiography i must not shrink from recording my thoughts at this time. full of my selfish love for daphne, i was hoping that the dead form carried by the monks might be—george. a wicked wish, and one that i was ashamed of the minute after i had entertained it.
the monks had ceased their singing for a brief space, but as they neared us a fresh outburst of mournful harmony rose from them. it spread through the vale around, and, rolling onward, echoed and re-echoed[pg 160] from many a distant cliff, and, as if refused a lodgment there, mounted upward to the midnight sky:
"dies ir?, dies illa,
solvet s?culum in favilla."
the deep cowl that veiled the head of each grey brother gave a singular appearance to the throng, and the peculiarly wild effect of their harmony was heightened by the solemn hour and the moonlight.
"what ghostly looking figures!" i muttered to my uncle.
"ay! charon multiplied by forty. how i hate these doleful gregorians! let us stop these sandalled friars, and ask—if indeed they will be so condescending as to tell us—who it is that has received his nunc dimittis."
as the train came abreast of us, my uncle stepped forward and lifted his hat to the monks, who at once stopped both their march and their requiem.
"pardon the curiosity of a stranger," he said, addressing the leading brother: "may we ask the reason of this midnight procession?"
the monk regarded the questioner with a look that seemed to ask what business it was of his; but, verbally courteous, he replied:
"pax vobiscum, mi fili. we mourn one who but a few hours ago was alive. now—sic est voluntas divina—he is no more."
"how came he by his death?"
"by falling from the cliff on which our monastery is built. the holy virgin—gloria tibi, o sancta maria—foreshadowed the event this morning by the fall of her image in the chapel."
"ah, the days of urim and thummim are not past, then," remarked my uncle, with a tinge of irony in his[pg 161] tone unnoticed by him to whom he spoke. "is the dead man a brother of your order?"
"an old inhabitant of rivoli, but a neophyte of two days only. it was but yesterday that the good father ignatius brought him to us, bidding us receive him as a novice. this evening at vespers he quitted the convent unknown to us. he did not return. at nocturns brother francis startled us by rushing in and saying that he had heard groans coming from the foot of the cliff. we descended to the spot. this is what we found."
with these words the speaker drew back the covering from the bier. and there, calm and still in death, with glazed eyes staring up at the sky, as if in reproach of the cold, silent moon that had seen him die, was the face of the silver-haired old man, the penitent of father ignatius. my sudden exclamation of surprise drew all eyes upon me.
"did you know him, young sir?"
"i have seen him once in england, and once here in the cathedral yesterday. i know nothing of him, not even his name. where are you taking the body?" i added after a moment's interval.
"to the house of father ignatius," replied the leading monk, as he motioned the cortège to proceed.
"stop!" cried my uncle, and at his imperative voice the monks paused.
for some moments he had been closely scrutinising the corpse, and now, pointing to it with a stern look, he said:
"there must be an inquiry on the body, for this man did not die by accident. he was pushed over the cliff. see! these marks on the throat were made by a strong hand. he has been murdered."
"murdered!" repeated forty voices.
[pg 162]
the bier was hastily set down. the bright torches were lowered to the level of the dead man's face and, making the sign of the cross, the monks crowded around to look.
"o sancta maria, ora pro nobis!"
the dark purple bruises on the throat, and the frayed condition of the clothing round it, were proofs too strong to be confuted, of my uncle's statement.
"these marks may have arisen from some other cause than the one you suggest," remarked the leading monk in tones sweetly supercilious. he seemed annoyed, probably because my uncle had discovered what his monkish dulness had overlooked.
the fingers of the dead man's right hand were tightly clenched. my uncle proceeded to force them open, and as he did so there fell to the ground something which when picked up proved to be a grey cloth button adhering to a fragment of grey cloth, and assuredly not belonging to the garments of the dead man.
"this," said my uncle, "has been torn by the dead man from the clothes of him who hurled him over. there was evidently a struggle. this button must not be lost. it may be a means of tracing the assassin."
so, while the pious monks had been lifting to heaven their prayers and psalms, a death-struggle had been going on under the walls of their convent, perhaps within the very sound of their voices. but what motive had prompted the deed, and whose was the hand that had so swiftly hurled the aged man into the arms of death?
the sight of the grey cloth button—suggestive of a military cloak—recalled to my memory the figure that daphne had seen at the fountain; and instantly there darted into my mind a terrible suspicion. the same[pg 163] had occurred to my uncle. bending his head over to me, and pointing to the corpse, he said in a whisper:
"is this george's work?"
a warm breath on my cheek checked the reply i was about to make. i turned. daphne was at my side, her hands raised, her eyes dilated with horror, and her figure swaying like a young sapling in the breeze. unperceived by myself or her father, she had followed us to the road—had seen the dead man, the damnatory evidence, had caught her father's whispered words. a scream such as i shall never forget broke from her, and before i could catch her in my arms she had dropped at my feet, a white senseless heap. her voice, like a death-cry, rang over the moonlit valley, awakening countless echoes from the sleeping rocks, and mingling with the mournful refrain of the monks:
"requiem ?ternam
et lucem perpetuam
dona mortuo, domine!"
