She watched fascinated. As he drew near, without a word she slowly raised her hands, and rent from her bosom its already desecrated veil. Then at last she spoke—or whispered:— ’I’m ready. Here’s where you kissed and sighed. Bloody thy bed.’ He took her to his remorseless grasp. She had often thrilled to know her helplessness therein—wondered what it would be to feel it closed in hate. Now she had her knowledge—and instantly, in an ecstasy of terror, succumbed to it. ’No, no!’ she gasped. ’Carlo, don’t kill me!’ Voiceless still, he raised his hand. She gave a fearful scream. ’I never meant it. I’m innocent. Not without a word. Carlo! Carlo!—I loved him!’ Writhing in her agony, she tore herself free a moment, and sank at his feet, rending, as she fell, the curtain from its rings. His back was to the wall. In a mirror opposite he caught the sudden vision of his intent, and, looking down upon it, dim and spiritual, the sweet face of the Saint. The dagger dropped from his hand. The silence of a minute seemed to draw into an age. Suddenly he was groping and stumbling like a drunken man. Words came to him in a babble:— ’Let be!—I’ll go—spare her?—Where’s thy Christ? He forgave too—I’m coming—answer for me—here!’ And he drove a staggering course from the room. Tears began to gush from her as she lay prone. Then suddenly, in a quick impulse, she rose to her feet, and re-veiling the picture, turned with her back to it. ’Ludovic remains,’ she whispered. Reeling, dancing, to himself it seemed, Carlo passed down the streets. White was on the ground; his brain was thick with whirling flakes; the roar of coming waters tingled in his veins. Sometimes he would pause and look stupidly at his right hand, as if in puzzle of its emptiness. There should have been something there—what was it?—a knife—a stone for two birds—Beatrice—and then Galeazzo. What had he omitted? He must go back and pick up the thread from the beginning. The waters came on as he stood, not close yet, but portentous, with a threatening roar. A crying shape, waving a bloody blade, sped towards and past him. ’Arm, arm, for liberty!’ it yelled as it ran. ’Tyranny is dead!’ Carlo chuckled thickly to himself. ’That was Olgiati. What does he with my dagger? I’ll go and take it from him.’ He turned, swaying, and in the act was swept upon, enveloped, and washed over by the torrent. It stranded him against a wall, where he stood blinking and giggling in the vortex of a multitudinous roar. ’Murdered! the Duke! Murdered! Close the gates!’ It thundered on and away. He looked at his hand once more; then turned for home. *CHAPTER XXVII*