Читать книгу The Mysteries of Florence - George Lippard - Страница 7

“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 shrill and prolonged shriek, echoing 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 his aged face grew livid as death, as he pointed with the other hand to a dark recess.

“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 was 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 threshold?”

Adrian passed his hand wildly over his forehead, and with a cry of horror fell insensible upon the floor.