But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all the allusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, as they recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heard nothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it in the least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling that something was left behind which had not been told her? Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a moment after, she sprang to a sitting posture. Yes, there was something behind! What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham and Licorice their lives? What had she heard which explained those mysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story? Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that one point which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know,--which Licorice expressed such anxiety that she should not even guess? There was not much sleep for Belasez that night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. The confession of the Countess is historical. She took the whole blame upon herself. CHAPTER TEN. TRUTH TOLD AT LAST. "Guardami ben'! Ben' son', ben' son' Beatrice." _Dante_. "Well, now, this is provoking!" "What is the matter, wife?" And Abraham looked up from a bale of silk which he was packing. "Why, here has Genta been and taken the fever; and there is not a soul but me to go and nurse her." "There is Esterote, her brother's wife." "There isn't! Esterote has her baby to look to. Dost thou expect her to carry infection to him?" "What is to be done?" demanded Abraham, blankly. "Could not Pucella be had, or old Cuntessa?" "Old Cuntessa is engaged as nurse for Rosia the wife of Bonamy the rich usurer, and Pucella would be no good,--she's as frightened of the fever as a chicken, and she has never had it." "Well, thou hast had it." "I? Oh, I'm not frightened a bit--not of that. I am tremendously afraid of thee." "Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likely thou wouldst take it." "_Ay de mi_, canst thou not understand? I might as well leave a thief to take care of my gold carcanet as leave thee alone with Belasez. I shall come back to find the child gone off with some vile dog of a Christian, and thee tearing thy garments, like a blind, blundering bat as thou art." "Bats don't tear their garments, wife." "They run their heads upon every stone they come across. And so dost thou." "Wife, dost thou not think we might speak out honestly like true men, and trust the All-Merciful with the child's future?" "Well, if ever I did see a lame, wall-eyed, broken-kneed old pack-ass, he was called Abraham the son of Ursel!" And Licorice stood with uplifted hands, gazing on her lord and master in an attitude of pitying astonishment.