“Signorina,” he said, his voice a distinct note of calm above the storm below, “if you sincerely desire to save your brother from the contempt of his neighbours it may be done better by the union of these young hearts than by tearing them asunder. Let us consider. You speak of the merry jest.” Here the good man’s eyes twinkled his zest in the wholesome trick to be played. “Would it not be a greater joke if the people found that they had betrothed not alone the wrong bride, but the wrong groom as well; in fact, had come to the marriage of one couple only to find another walk into the parlour with the priest?” For a moment no one caught his meaning. Then he went on, with equal countenance: “What I mean is that you silence the tongue of scandal by having a wedding at once, with this pair of turtle-doves as the bride and groom.” “Bravo!” Signor Di Bello whooped, grasping the priest’s hand. “Indeed a famous joke. I will tell them that it was all fun about my getting married; that it was to be my foster niece and her sweetheart all the time. Ah, the side-splitting joke!” “Come, then,” said the priest, without waiting for Carolina’s approval; and the joyous Armando and Marianna, with Signor Di Bello last in the procession, followed him to the parlour. Carolina did not go downstairs, but turned into her sanctum, and with flooding eyes looked out on San Patrizio’s graveyard. She heard the muffled outburst of wonder that greeted the bridal twain in the parlour, and alert was her ear to the growing quiet that became silence when the priest began the nuptial rites. Soon the merriment of the feast rang beneath her feet. Plainly the lying joke was a great success. Ah! what a fine _vendetta_ it would be to go down there and tell them all the truth--even now while her brother was cracking walnuts on his head and making the table roar! But no; of strife she was weary. She longed for peace--for the peace that lay beyond that gray forest of mortuary shafts; the peace beyond that rectory door, to which the latch string beckoned and a soft voice, clear above the revelry, seemed calling: “_Perpetua, perpetua, riposo, pace._” * * * * * When Armando, with one hundred dollars in his pocket--the grateful tribute of Signor Di Bello--went to Banca Tomato to buy two second-class tickets for Genoa, the banker led him behind the nankeen sail--sewed together again by Bridget--and whispered that Bertino would be on the same ship in the steerage. “Did she pay?” asked the sculptor. “No, not all: a cut on the cheek; a clumsy thrust, dealt in a dark alley, where he waited for her all night. But mark you, the fool wanted to stay, to go back--to make her pay more--to pay all. He is not satisfied; and in truth I do not blame him. She ought to pay all.” “_Si_--all.”