The Werewolf Blood Trail: Tales of Gore, Terror & Hunt. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
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of her swan-neck imparted something of nobility to her tall, sylph-like, and exquisitely proportioned figure.
Retiring and bashful in her manners, every look which fell from her eyes—every smile which wreathed her lips, denoted the chaste purity of her soul. With all her readiness to oblige—with all her anxiety to do her duty as she ought, she frequently incurred the anger of the irascible Nisida; but Flora supported those manifestations of wrath with the sweetest resignation, because the excellence of her disposition taught her to make every allowance for one so deeply afflicted as her mistress.
Such was the young maiden whom the nature of the present tale compels us thus particularly to introduce to our readers.
Having carefully arranged the boudoir, so that its strict neatness might be welcome to her mistress when that lady chose to rise from her couch, Flora seated herself near the table, and gave way to her reflections.
She thought of her aunt, who inhabited a neat little cottage on the banks of the Arno, and whom she was usually permitted to visit every Sabbath afternoon—she thought of her absent brother, who was still in the service of the Florentine Envoy to the Ottomon Porte, where that diplomatist was detained by the tardiness that marked the negotiations with which he was charged; and then she thought—thought too, with an involuntary sigh—of Francisco, Count of Riverola.
She perceived that she had sighed—and, without knowing precisely wherefore, she was angry with herself.
Anxious to turn the channel of her meditations in another direction, she rose from her seat to examine the clepsydra. That movement caused her eyes to fall upon the paper which she had picked up a quarter of an hour previously.
In spite of herself the image of Francisco was still uppermost in her thoughts; and, in the contemplative vein thus encouraged, her eyes lingered, unwittingly—and through no base motive of curiosity—upon the writing which that paper contained.
Thus she actually found herself reading the first four lines of the writing, before she recollected what she was doing.
The act was a purely mechanical one, which not the most rigid moralist could blame.
And had the contents of the paper been of no interest, she might even have continued to read more in that same abstracted mood; but those four first lines were of a nature which sent a thrilling sensation of horror through her entire frame; the feeling terminating with an icy coldness of the heart.
She shuddered without starting—shuddered as she stood; and not even a murmur escaped her lips.
The intenseness of that sudden pang of horror deprived her alike of speech and motion during the instant that it lasted.
And those lines, which produced so strange an impression upon the young maiden, ran thus:
“merciless scalpel hacked and hewed away at the still almost palpitating flesh of the murdered man, in whose breast the dagger remained buried—a ferocious joy—a savage hyena-like triumph——”
Flora read no more; she could not—even if she had wished.
For a minute she remained rooted to the spot; then she threw herself into the chair, bewildered and dismayed at the terrible words which had met her eyes.
She thought that the handwriting was not unknown to her; but she could not recollect whose it was. One fact was, however, certain—it was not the writing of her mistress.
She was musing upon the horrible and mysterious contents of the paper, when Nisida rose from her couch.
Acknowledging with a slight nod of the head the respectful salutation of her attendant, she hastily slipped on a loose wrapper, and seated herself in the arm-chair which Flora had just abandoned.
The young girl then proceeded to comb out the long raven hair of her mistress.
But this occupation was most rudely interrupted: for Nisida’s eyes suddenly fell upon the manuscript page on the table; and she started up in a paroxysm of mingled rage and alarm.
Having assured herself by a second glance that it was indeed a portion of the writings which had produced so strange an effect upon her a few hours previously, she turned abruptly toward Flora; and, imperiously confronting the young maiden, pointed to the paper in a significant manner.
Flora immediately indicated by a sign that she had found it on the floor, beneath the arm-chair.
“And you have read it!” was the accusation which, with wonderful rapidity, Nisida conveyed by means of her fingers—fixing her piercing, penetrating eyes on Flora’s countenance at the same time.
The young maiden scorned the idea of a falsehood; although she perceived that her reply would prove far from agreeable to her mistress, she unhesitatingly admitted, by the language of the hands. “I read the first four lines, and no more.”
A crimson glow instantly suffused the face, neck, shoulders, and bosom of Nisida; but instantly compressing her lips—as was her wont when under the influence of her boiling passions, she turned her flashing eyes once more upon the paper, to ascertain which leaf of the manuscript it was.
That rapid glance revealed to her the import, the dread, but profoundly mysterious import of the four first lines on that page; and, again darting her soul-searching looks upon the trembling Flora, she demanded, by the rapid play of her delicate taper fingers “Will you swear that you read no more?”
“As I hope for salvation!” was Flora’s symbolic answer.
The penetrating, imperious glance of Nisida dwelt long upon the maiden’s countenance; but no sinister expression—no suspicious change on that fair and candid face contradicted the assertion which she had made.
“I believe you; but beware how you breathe to a living soul a word of what you did read!”
Such was the injunction which Nisida now conveyed by her usual means of communication; and Flora signified implicit obedience.
Nisida then secured the page of writing in her jewel casket; and the details of the toilet were resumed.
CHAPTER IV.
The Funeral—The Interruption Of The Ceremony.
Eight days after the death of the Count of Riverola, the funeral took place.
The obsequies were celebrated at night, with all the pomp observed amongst noble families on such occasions. The church in which the corpse was buried, was hung with black cloth; and even the innumerable wax tapers which burned upon the altar and around the coffin failed to diminish the lugubrious aspect of the scene.
At the head of the bier stood the youthful heir of Riverola; his pale countenance of even feminine beauty contrasting strangely with the mourning garments which he wore, and his eyes bent upon the dark chasm that formed the family vault into which the remains of his sire were about to be lowered.
Around the coffin stood Dr. Duras and other male friends of the deceased: for the females of the family were not permitted, by the custom of the age and the religion, to be present on occasions of this kind.
It was eleven o’clock at night: and the weather without was stormy and tempestuous.
The wind moaned through the long aisles, raising strange and ominous echoes, and making the vast folds of sable drapery wave slowly backward and forward, as if agitated by unseen hands. A few spectators, standing in the background, appeared like grim figures on a black tapestry; and the gleam of the wax tapers, oscillating on their countenances, made them seem death-like and ghastly.
From time to time the shrill wail of the shriek-owl, and the flapping of its wings against the diamond-paned windows of the church, added to the awful gloom of the funeral scene.
And now suddenly arose the chant of the priests—the parting hymn for the dead!
Francisco