“Alas, my poor Andrea,” sighed the baron, falling, seated on a stone bench by the door.
“But I shall find her, dead or alive,” replied the young man gloomily.
And he returned to the place with feverish agitation. He would have lopped off his useless arm, if he had an axe, but as it was, he tucked the hand into his waistcoat for an improvised sling.
It was thus we saw him on the square, where he wandered part of the night. As the first streaks of dawn whitened the sky, he turned homeward, though ready to drop. From a distance he saw the same familiar group which had met his eyes on the eve. He understood that Andrea had not returned, and he halted.
“Well?” called out the baron, spying him.
“Has she not returned? no news—no clew?” and he fell, exhausted, on the stone bench, while the older noble swore.
At this juncture, a hack appeared at the end of the street, lumbered up, and stopped in front of the house. As a female head appeared at the window, thrown back as if in a faint, Philip, recognizing it, leaped that way. The door opened, and a man stepped out who carried Andrea de Taverney in his arms.
“Dead—they bring her home dead,” gasped Philip, falling on his knees.
“I do not think so, gentlemen,” said the man who bore Andrea, “I trust that Mdlle. de Taverney is only fainted.”
“Oh, the magician,” said the baron, while Philip uttered the name of “the Baron of Balsamo.”