The other spectators passed through a second of anguish. The bright figure on the pedestal wavered; one moment, and it seemed as though the lamp must descend crashing upon the head and neck and the white dress beneath it; the next, it had fallen from Kitty's hand--fallen away from her--wide and safe--into the depths of the garden below. A flash of wild light rose from the burning oil and from the dry shrubs amid which it fell. Kitty, meanwhile, swayed--and dropped--heavily--unconscious--into William Ashe's arms. * * * * * Kitty barely recovered life and sense during the night that followed. And while she was still unconscious her boy passed away. The poor babe, all ignorant of the straits in which his mother lay, was seized with convulsions in the dawn, and gave up his frail life gathered to his father's breast. Some ten weeks later, towards the end of October, society knew that the Home Secretary and Lady Kitty had started for Italy--bound first of all for Venice. It was said that Lady Kitty was a wreck, and that it was doubtful whether she would ever recover the sudden and tragic death of her only child. PART IV STORM "Myself, arch-traitor to myself; My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, My clog whatever road I go." XVII "'Among the numerous daubs with which Tintoret, to his everlasting shame, has covered this church--'" "Good Heavens!--what does the man mean?--or is he talking of another church?" said Ashe, raising his head and looking in bewilderment, first at the magnificent Tintoret in front of him, and then at the lines he had just been reading. "William!" cried Kitty, "_do_ put that fool down and come here; one sees it splendidly!" She was standing in one of the choir-stalls of San Giorgio Maggiore, somewhat raised above the point where Ashe had been studying his German hand-book. "My dear, if this man doesn't know, who does!" cried Ashe, flourishing his volume in front of him as he obeyed her. "'Dans le royaume des aveugles,'" said Kitty, contemptuously. "As if any German could even begin to understand Tintoret! But--don't talk!" And clasping both hands round Ashe's arm, she stood leaning heavily upon him, her whole soul gazing from the eyes she turned upon the picture, her lips quivering, as though, from some physical weakness, she could only just hold back the tears with which, indeed, the face was charged. She and Ashe were looking at that "Last Supper" of Tintoret's which hangs in the choir of San Giorgio Maggiore at Venice. It is a picture dear to all lovers of Tintoret, breathing in every line and group the passionate and mystical fancy of the master.