And not trembling and with burning tears as he had loaded the pistol which he sent to his son, but with a steady hand and rigid flaming eyes did he load the second, with which to shoot down the scoundrel who with devilish cunning had enticed his son to disgrace and death. CHAPTER II. Ferdinanda had gone to-day, as usual, at her accustomed hour to the studio, and had even attempted to work; but, in spite of the determination which she had long exercised in subduing her talent to her will, and the success which had often attended her efforts, the struggle was vain to-day, and she threw down her tools again. "For the last time," said she to herself. She had meant for to-day; but the words, as she spoke them aloud, sounded strangely in the great, high room, as if not she but some one else had said them--a ghostly, prophetic voice speaking from far off, that left her standing and listening in terror lest the voice should speak again. What need was there of a prophetic voice to convince her of what her own broken heart had said long since? It was all in vain--her efforts, her struggles, her renunciation, vain--even the tender remonstrances, the gentle warnings, the bright example of the saintly Cilli herself! How often and often, when that angelic being had left her, had she thrown herself in the dust before the Pietà, which she had modelled two months ago from her, and prayed that the all-merciful love with which the heart of the blind girl overflowed might descend upon her heart too, if it were only a drop! Even that would suffice to extinguish the flames that raged there! But in vain. Yesterday evening would have proved that, had proof been needed. How she had debated whether she would accept that girl's invitation, and see him again whom she had solemnly sworn never more to see! She had kept her oath, and had fled at the last moment. But was such a flight to be called a victory? Had she not been conquered--did she not lie here helpless, shattered, bleeding? Her deadly wound had never been healed, only insufficiently and with difficulty bound up; and now she had torn off the bandages, and might bleed to death! There was no more hope for her. All else within was dull, dead, and insensible. She had fancied that she felt a kind of respect for Philip's activity and daring--that she was bound to him by at least a feeble bond of fraternal love. And yet this morning, when Aunt Rikchen had brought the terrible news, and had wept and lamented so that it might have moved a heart of stone, she had not even been touched. She had received it like any other piece of sensational intelligence which her aunt was in the habit of reading out of the newspaper and making remarks upon. She seemed turned to stone in the selfishness of her passion, so that it had not even occurred to her to go to her father and say to him, "You have still one child, father."