He walked hastily to the door of the anteroom, whilst Bertalda, conducted by François, rushed to another door leading into his bedroom, and from thence into the second corridor, and only opened it as Bertalda was on the point of disappearing behind the portière, one side of which François had drawn back for her. Antonio, who, standing close to the door and listening, had heard Bertalda's shriek, and whose mind was filled with the image of Ferdinanda, had immediately concluded that he recognised her voice, and at once stepped in; Bertalda could not so quickly get out. In her embarrassment she had run against the side of the portière which was down, and entangled herself in it, and it was a moment or two before, with François' help, she was free, long enough for the sharp-eyed Antonio to discover that the lady whom he was putting to flight was not Ferdinanda herself, but the mysterious unknown who had lately come so regularly to Ferdinanda's studio, and whom he had taken for an ambassador from his deadly enemy. So she did not come from him, but from here! And why should she run off so hastily the moment he was admitted? If the signor mentioned the lady--well, perhaps it was all right--he would try and trust him still, as heretofore; if he did not mention her, he would never believe another word that passed his lips--never! These thoughts flew through Antonio's mind as he made his bow; meanwhile Giraldi had recovered from his surprise, and taken his resolution. He had taken it for granted that Antonio, from the studio in which he worked, would remark the coming and going of the black-veiled lady to the other studio, and had consequently enjoined the utmost circumspection upon Bertalda. Antonio was not to learn who she was, least of all that she had any connection with him. Now, in consequence of the youth's hasty entry, the secret was within a hair's-breadth of escaping; but that he should have seen, or in any way recognised Bertalda, was quite impossible. The end of the great room was buried in almost total darkness, and as his own attention had been entirely centred on the door by which Antonio would enter, the delay in Bertalda's departure by the other had escaped his notice. "A second later would have been too late," he thought to himself, as he took the youth's hand and--now completely master of himself--said in his usual quiet, friendly tone: "Welcome, my dear Antonio--no, no, my son--I am not consecrated yet." Antonio, bending low, had raised the hand which Giraldi had offered him to his lips. "The less you trust him the more submissive must you be," said Antonio to himself. "You are sacred to me, signor," he said aloud. "The good Brother Ambrose, the benevolent guardian of my wretched youth, is not in my eyes more revered and sacred than you are."