In the morning Calantha was informed, by Lady Margaret, of the whole transaction. She said, however, that on account of his youth, no other notice would be taken of his fault, than that of his being immediately sent back to his parents at Florence. Calantha was unquiet and restless the whole of the day. “The absence of your page,” said Lady Margaret sarcastically, as she passed her, “seems to have caused you some little uneasiness. Do you expect to find him in any of these rooms? Have you not been to Craig Allen Bay, or the Wizzard’s glen? Has the Chapel been examined thoroughly?” A loud noise and murmur interrupted her. The entrance of the Count Gondimar, pale and trembling, supported by Lord Glenarvon and a servant, gave a general alarm.—“Ruffians,” said Gondimar, fiercely glancing his eyes around, “attacked our carriage, and forced the child from my grasp.” “Where?—how?” “About twenty miles hence,” said the Italian. “Curse on the darkness, which prevented my defending myself as I ought.” “Those honorable wounds,” said Glenarvon, “prove sufficiently that the Count wrongs himself.” “Trelawny,” whispered Gondimar, “do me a favour. Fly to the stables; view well Glenarvon’s steed; mark if it bear any appearance of recent service: I strongly suspect him: and but for his presence at these grates, so calm, so cleanly accoutred, I could have staked my soul it was by his arm I received these wounds.” “The horse,” said Lord Trelawny, when he returned, “is sleek and far different from the reeking steeds that followed with your carriage.” Glenarvon smiled scornfully on the officious Lord: then fixing his eye sternly upon Gondimar, “I read your suspicions,” said he in a low voice, as he passed: “they are just. Now, serpent, do thy worst: thou art at my mercy.” “Not at thine,” replied Gondimar, grinding his teeth. “By the murdered....” “Say no more,” said Glenarvon, violently agitated, while every trembling nerve attested the agony he endured. “For God’s sake be silent. I will meet you at St. Alvin’s to-night: you shall investigate the whole of my conduct, and you will not find in it aught to give you just offence.” “The ground upon which you stand has a crimsoned dye,” said Gondimar, with a malicious smile: “look at your hand, my lord....” Glenarvon, faint and exhausted, scarce appeared to support himself any longer; but suddenly collecting all his forces together, with a struggle, which nature seemed scarcely equal to endure, he sprung upon the Italian, and asked him fiercely the meaning of his words. Gondimar now, in his turn, trembled; Lord Trelawney interposed; and peace was apparently restored. CHAPTER XXIX.