“I wrote the letter,” he went on, in a pitiful effort. “I copied your hand; the letter that bid him go to you--and he has gone,--fool, dog that bit me!--and you will not have him when I am gone. I saw him pass--pass to his doom! He thinks you are there awaiting him with your kisses. The knife will be there! The kiss of steel will greet him!” She could not credit her senses. The man lying there in the last breath of his life was choking and laughing--a mocking, malevolent laughter, as hideous a sound as human ear ever heard. She shrank from him; she wished to flee where neither eye could see that face, twitching in hateful glee, nor ear know the horror of such dying words. But soon enough his features and tongue became composed. The voices of the street had dwindled to a dull rumble. She drew near to him, and looked upon his face. On his lip lingered a foam that no breath disturbed; and in his open, staring eyes she read the message that set her free. She kneeled again and prayed, asking mercy for him and pardon for herself if, in following the light of conscience, she had wronged her husband. When a little time had passed she rose and went on the balcony to stand in the coolness of the night. From the street came no longer sounds of strife or pain; order reigned again in the dwelling quarter of the well-to-do; with bullets and bayonets the revolution had been driven across Cathedral Square, back to the Porta Ticinese. The quieter phase checked her whirling thoughts, helped her to take facts at a clearer value. She had seen the chain that held her parted, as a silken thread might have been snapped, but only to give her into a new bondage, that of despair, if what Tarsis said was truth; nor could she doubt those terrible words. Mario was well on his way. More than half an hour before he had set out for the monastery. It was too late, she perceived, to overtake him, unless--unless she rode like the gale. She thought of her horse and the hard-ridden miles he had done that afternoon, and knew that with him it would be impossible; but there was the palace stable with its long rows of horses, and some of them fleet-footed under the saddle, as she knew. The thought kindled a beautiful hope. Her lips set in the firmness of resolve; she threw a glance toward the lounge with its silent occupant, and started for the door. Over the wreckage of the grand saloon she made her way without mischance, for the moon was sending its flood through the glass dome; there was a streaming of light, too, from the corridor, and she beheld a man standing in the doorway arch wringing his hands. It was Beppe, quaking from causes other than fright.