“Leonora! Leonora!” he cried, “be careful! Come back, I entreat you, and let us argue this matter together.” But the Marchesa ran to the head of the staircase, and defied him. “What do I care?” she cried, “let them all hear! Let them all come, and I will tell them who _I_ am, and what _you_ are!” She gave a kind of shrill cry, half of triumph and half of despair, as she concluded, and Von Steinberg already heard a bustle below stairs, as if the servants had been attracted by the noise and were hastening to the rescue. He advanced to her side and essayed to place his hand upon her mouth. She drew a knife at once from her pocket--he could see the flash of the blade as she grasped it in her hand. The instinct of self-preservation made him push her from him--she retreated towards the stairs and slipped on the yielding carpet, and before he could do anything to save her, the great unwieldy body, unable to recover itself, had rolled with a scream of terror, down to the very hall, where it lay inert and unconscious, crushed into a mass of senseless clay. As the Baron realised the accident that had occurred, all his resentment was merged in compassion. He forgot the mocking evil spirit that had so lately defied and insulted him, and remembered only that here lay a suffering fellow-creature--a patient to be relieved. His medical skill rose paramount to every other consideration, and he was at the foot of the stairs almost as soon as she was. Three or four servants appeared upon the scene--all had heard the heavy fall and the scream which had accompanied it. Karl von Steinberg turned the body gently over--it was totally unconscious and the limbs fell limply from it. He could not tell how much or how little she was injured--the first thing to do was to carry her upstairs again to her room--the next to dispatch a servant for the best surgeon in Town, to render his professional assistance. Meanwhile the body of Hannah lay crumpled up upon the bed, and had not given a single sign of life. She was not dead, so far Von Steinberg was able to ascertain, but if she would ever regain her consciousness, he was unable to say. In a short time, he was joined by the famous surgeon who had fortunately been disengaged, and between them they undressed the poor mangled carcase, and ascertained the amount of injury done to it. It was fearful. One thigh had to be set--two ribs--the left arm--and an ankle. When the operations were completed, Hannah lay like a swathed mummy in her bed, with her body broken in all directions, and still unconscious. “Will she recover?” demanded her husband, “will she ever speak, or open her eyes again? What is your opinion?”