Of what had she been thinking in that moment of silence and darkness? Did that vision of Costantino lying apparently dead before her awaken a sudden, agonising sense of what she had done; of her iniquitous responsibility in the ruin that had been wrought in Giovanna's and Costantino's lives, and in the lives of every one concerned in the melancholy drama? Throwing herself on the floor beside the pallet, she passed her hands tremblingly over his body and face, sobbing in the darkness and silence: "Costantino, Costantino! are you alive? Answer me----Yes," she murmured presently, "he is alive, but ill, ill--you are ill, aren't you?" she went on coaxingly. "Is it a wound? Ah, God! If you only knew what terrible things have happened! Giovanna sent me; she was frightened, you know; she thought you might have been hurt, that some one might have been lying in wait for you; she's more dead than alive herself--Costantino----!" At last Costantino gave a moan; something hard in his breast seemed to melt; he was moved--affected. Then he was not forgotten, after all; Giovanna had been anxious; she had sent to find out about him; she was frightened, unhappy. Then, in his changed mood, Aunt Bachissia's words of a moment before came back to him with fresh meaning. "He is ill _as well_," she had said. Who was this other person who was ill? Again he thought of Giovanna, and his heart sank. "Is it a wound?" she repeated. "Yes," murmured Costantino. "Who did it?" "I don't know; some one hired by Aunt Martina Dejas." "Ah!" cried Aunt Bachissia, her voice thick with anger; then, in a changed tone, she said: "The saying goes that God does not pay on Saturday--well,--Brontu Dejas is dying--poor wretch!" Costantino felt as though an electric shock had gone through him; he started to his feet, swayed, and fell back on his knees. In the darkness his hands encountered those of Aunt Bachissia, and she felt that they were scorching hot and trembling.