She was young and extraordinarily beautiful. Her face was thin and white. Her clothing was of fine materials but scanty and torn to shreds. As they stopped she turned her large eyes up despairingly and stood still, with a face which seemed to express every conceivable emotion of anguish and of hope. Yet as her eyes rested on Langhetti a change came over her. The deep and unutterable sadness of her face passed away, and was succeeded by a radiant flash of joy. She threw out her arms toward him with a cry of wild entreaty. The moment that Langhetti saw her he started up and stood for an instant as if paralyzed. Her cry came to his ears. He leaped from the carriage toward her, and caught her in his arms. “Oh, Bice! Alas, my Bicina!” he cried, and a thousand fond words came to his lips. Beatrice looked up with eyes filled with grateful tears; her lips murmured some inaudible sentences; and then, in this full assurance of safety, the resolution that had sustained her so long gave way altogether. Her eyes closed, she gave a low moan, and sank senseless upon his breast. Langhetti supported her for a moment, then gently laid her down to try and restore her. He chafed her hands, and did all that is usually done in such emergencies. But here the case was different--it was more than a common faint, and the animation now suspended was not to be restored by ordinary efforts. Langhetti bowed over her as he chafed her hands. “Ah, my Bicina,” he cried; “is it thus I find you! Ah, poor thin hand! Alas, white wan face! What suffering has been yours, pure angel, among those fiends of hell!” He paused, and turned a face of agony toward Despard. But as he looked at him he saw a grief in his countenance that was only second to his own. Something in Beatrice’s appearance had struck him with a deeper feeling than that merely human interest which the generous heart feels in the sufferings of others. “Langhetti,” said he, “let us not leave this sweet angel exposed to this bleak wind. We must take her back to the inn. We have gained our object. Alas! the gain is worse than a failure.” “What can we do?” “Let us put her in the carriage between us, and drive back instantly.” Despard stooped as he spoke, raised her reverently in his arms, and lifted her upon the seat. He sprang in and put his arms around her senseless form, so as to support her against himself. Langhetti looked on with eyes that were moist with a sad yet mysterious feeling. Then he resumed his place in the carriage. “Oh, Langhetti!” said Despard, “what is it that I saw in the face of this poor child that so wrings my heart? What is this mystery of yours that you will not tell?” “I can not solve it,” said Langhetti, “and therefore I will not tell it.” “Tell it, whatever it is.” “No, it is only conjecture as yet, and I will not utter it.” “And it affects me?” “Deeply.” “Therefore tell it.” “Therefore I must not tell it; for if it prove baseless I shall only excite your feeling in vain.”