He stood quite still, frightened, as it seemed, into immobility, glaring at us with a terrified face. He had thought that we were safely bestowed, round the table downstairs, for some time to come. Our footsteps on the stairs had disturbed him when his work was almost finished; our entrance cut off his retreat. Even if he had had the presence of mind to bar the door, it would have given him only a brief respite; escape by the window was impossible; but he did not look as if he were capable of reckoning up the situation, or his chances, at all. He was numb with fear. “Drop that thing, you scoundrel!” I cried; and it is my belief to this day that he would have obeyed me, put down his weapon, and meekly surrendered, if he had been let alone. He was certainly not built for a burglar or for deeds of violence, though I suppose the possession of the revolver had nerved him to this enterprise of his. But Arsenio did not let him alone, or wait to see the effect of my order. Even as I spoke, he dashed forward in front of me, uttering a wild cry; it did not sound like fear—either for his money or for his life—or even like rage; really, it sounded more like triumph than anything else. And he made straight for the armed man, utterly regardless of the weapon that he held. Thus put to it, Louis fired—once, twice. Arsenio ran, as it were, right on to the first bullet. I had darted forward to support his attempt to rush the thief—if that really was what he had in his mind—and he fell back plump into my arms, just as the second bullet whizzed past my head. Then with a yell of sheer horror—at what he had done, I suppose—Louis dropped the revolver with a bang on the floor, dropped the fat portfolio too with a flop, and, before I, cumbered with Arsenio’s helpless body, could do anything to stop him, bolted out of the room like a scared rabbit. I heard his feet pattering down the stairs at an incredible pace. Arsenio was groaning and clutching at his chest. I supported him to his shabby old sofa, and laid him down there. Then I violently rang the bell which communicated with the ground floor where Amedeo abode. The next moment Lucinda came into the room—very quickly, but calmly. “Did he do it himself, after all?” “No, Louis; he’d been rifling the bureau; and the revolver——” “Ah, it was Louis that I heard running downstairs! I’ll look after him. Go for a doctor.” There were no telephones in the old _palazzo_; the owner had not spent his precarious gains in that fashion! “I thought of sending Amedeo——” “You’ll be quicker. Go, Julius.” She knelt down by Arsenio’s sofa. As I went on my errand—I knew of a doctor who lived quite close—I met old Amedeo, lumbering upstairs, half-dressed, and told him what had happened. “He looks very bad,” I added. Amedeo flung up his hands with pious ejaculations. “As I go by the _piano nobile_ I’ll call Father Garcia, and take him up with me. Don Arsenio’s a good Catholic.”