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Brandon took her hand. "Farewell," he murmured; "farewell, Beatrice. You will not condemn me when I say that I am innocent?" "I am accursed," she murmured. Despard looked at these two with deep anxiety. "Stay," said he to Brandon. "There is something which must be explained. There is a secret which Langhetti has had for years, and which he has several times been on the point of telling.
Beatrice hurried in and returned with a servant. "We will first lift him out," said Despard. "Is there a bed ready?" "Oh yes! Bring him in!" cried Beatrice, who was now in an agony of suspense. She hurried after them to the wagon. They lifted Langhetti out and took him into a room which Beatrice showed them. They tenderly laid him on the bed.
None of these things could be done, and Langhetti despaired of accomplishing any thing. The idea of her being once more in the power of a man like Potts was frightful to him. This idea filled his mind continually, to the exclusion of all other thoughts. His opera was forgotten. One great horror stood before him, and all else became of no account.
Another horseman was standing close by, without pretending even to interfere. Despard did not see him; he saw nothing but Langhetti. He flung himself from his horse, and drew a revolver from his pocket. A loud report rang through the air, and in an instant the huge blood-hound gave a leap upward, with a piercing yell, and fell dead in the road. Despard flung himself on his knees beside Langhetti.
He paused at that sentence: "They have been talking it over, and have come to the conclusion to get a detective, and keep him busy watching her with the idea of getting her back." What was the nature of this danger? Beatrice was of age. She was with Langhetti. She was her own mistress. Could there be any danger of her being taken back against her will?
In the morning he saw Langhetti and told him all. "But who is the stranger?" Despard asked in wonder. "It can only be one person," said Langhetti, solemnly. "Who?" "Louis Brandon. He and no other. Who else could thus have been chosen to find the dead? He has his wrongs also to avenge." Despard was silent. Overwhelming thoughts crowded upon him. Was this man Louis Brandon?
Langhetti thought that they as a trio of powers formed a means of communicating new revelations to man. It was natural indeed that he in his high and generous enthusiasm should have some such thoughts as these, and should look forward with delight to the time when his work should first be performed.
He did not know exactly what it would be best to do first. His one idea was to go to the Hall, and confront the murderers in their own place. Langhetti, however, urged the need of help from the civil magistrate. It was while they were deliberating about this that a letter was brought in addressed to the Rev. Courtenay Despard. Despard did not recognize the handwriting.
Beatrice was the medium of utterance the Voice that brought down heaven to earth. Mrs. Thornton and Despard stood apart, the recipients of the sublime effects and holy emotions which the others wrought out within them. Edith was like the soul. Langhetti like the mind. Beatrice resembled the material element by which the spiritual is communicated to man. Hers was the Voice which spoke.
Alas, and alas, and alas, if she is! Yet could I but see that woman, I would tear the truth from her if I perished in the attempt!" And Langhetti stretched out his long, slender hand, as though he were plucking out the very heart of some imaginary enemy. "Think, Teresuola," said he, after a while, "if you were in captivity, what would become of my opera?
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