is gigantic
shadow striding with him on the wall, his wide robes floating on the
wind, his white hair streaming, his form winged with the courage of
despair. The retainers follow, the vaulted ceilings echoing back the
sharp gride of their footsteps. Only one lighted saloon now lies between
them and the chamber of the ladies of the castle. The double door at the
other end is thrown wide open, the walls and windows of the wedding
chamber are crimsoning with the early hues of day, silence and solitude
pervade them, nothing falls upon the air save the twitter of the birds
and the murmur of the fountains. The old man rushes on directly to the
open door and toward the reddening east.

He reaches the threshold, and the immense red face of the just risen sun
dazzles his eyes. Is it the bloody Heart of God he sees pulsating
through the universe? Blinded for a moment, he staggers on at random,
when suddenly he sees the floor is red with blood. The dreadful phantoms
of the night are again around him, no longer floating in misty visions,
but glaring fixed before him in the stern light of dread reality. In the
fierce blaze of its pitiless rays, he sees the dead body of his
brother's son; the bloody form of his only child, his good daughter,
lies pale at his feet. Like a drowning man he gasps for breath, beats
the air wildly around him, as if trying to rescue himself from this hell
of spectres. Then he stands motionless, as if transfixed to the spot.
Awakened by the noise and rumor, guests, feudal retainers, servants, and
attendants rush to the spot, each in turn to be terror-stricken at the
threshold, to move within awed and silent. All eyes wander from the old
lord of the castle to the stiffening corpses at his feet. They lie
together now! The left arm of the exile is round the neck of his sister;
her head rests on his armed bosom just above the spot where the sword
still remains plunged in his breast; his right hand has fallen beside
it. There was no one near to close their dying eyelids, the pupils
glitter glassily in the whitening light of the ascending sun, and the
blood which is everywhere around, on the bridal bed, on the coat of mail
of the young chieftain, on the white robes and snowy bosom of the bride,
already congeals into dark pools or crimson corals. Above this cooling
stream their features rest in marble peace--a faint smile is on the lips
of the young bride--while a passing thought of warlike glory still beams
from t