“_Grazie a Dio!_ I thought I had killed him. She told me he was dead; to fly, that the police were after me.” The others did not understand just then. “And the bust?” breathed Armando. “It is here.” The band had relapsed into silence, and the air was filled with the drone of a weird island chant that lacked only the tom-tom to perfect its Hindu cadence. The lips of the marchers scarcely moved as they gave forth their hymn of praise to the Genius of Spring. And there was the Queen, wabbling along in her push-cart chariot, the idol of Mulberry’s rabble--the “Presidentessa” whom her creator had dreamed--oh, so trustfully!--to see enthroned upon a porphyry pedestal in the White House, admired of the rich and great. Armando would have dived into the _cortège_, pushed aside the candle-bearers who guarded the Queen, and striven to reclaim his own, but the grip of Carolina’s hands on his arm held him back. She had guessed his death-courting purpose. A picture of knife-blades gleaming in the candlelight flashed in her mind, and she put all her strength in her grasp. “Let go!” he cried, tugging hard, but Bertino clutched his other arm at the command of Carolina. “Magnificent God! Am I to stand here and see them carry it away?” “Fool!” said Carolina. “Do you think they will let you take their Queen? A hundred knives would stop you.” He ceased struggling. “But what shall I do?” “Patience! Here, Bertino; follow on, learn whither the Sicilian swine take the bust, and when their feast is over we shall demand it.” Again Bertino took up the trail. CHAPTER XXII CAROLINA CONSTRUCTS A DRAMA A THUNDERSTORM routed the procession, sending the candle-bearers helter-skelter into doorways, covered alleys, under the awnings of the shops. At the first flash and report of the sky’s artillery Andrea deserted his push-cart and its royal occupant. But the dauntless leader of the election district was at hand. With heroic calm he lifted the Queen in his arms and unaided carried her into the Caffè of the Beautiful Sicilian. Mulberry had but few men who could do that--she was of solid Carrara--and thoughtful voters saw in the feat a new mark of his fitness for political chieftainship. She was placed on a marble-top table in the corner and the crown straightened on her spotless brow. All night she held court, and until the vender songs of the morning market were heard in the streets. Bottle after bottle joined the dead men, the rude quips and quibbles grew noisy, quarrelsome, yet no man drained a glass without first tipping it in homage to the snub-nosed damsel whose hollow eyes stared at every one all the time. An hour before midnight Bertino and Armando returned to Casa Di Bello to report to Carolina the lodging place of the Last Lady. Hardly had the bell sounded when the door flew open, and Carolina came out, finger at lips, with a great air of mystery, and drawing to the panelled oak behind her.