"They have killed him?"
I turned feebly to Bianca; but Bianca had not spoken. She leaned, dumb with fright, against the wall of the alleyway, and stared at the Princess, who faced us, panting, in the whirls of snow.
"I tried"—it was my own voice saying this—"yes, indeed, I tried to save him. He would not, and they killed him . . . and now they also are killed."
"Yes—yes, I heard them." She peered close. "Can you walk? Try to think it is a little way; for it is most necessary you should walk."
I had not the smallest notion whether I could walk or not. It appeared more important that my head was being eaten with red-hot teeth. But she took my arm and led me.
"Go before us, foolish girl, and make less noise," she commanded the sobbing Bianca.
"But you must try for my sake," she whispered, "to think it but a little way."
And I must have done so with success; for of the way through the streets I remember nothing but the end—a light shining down the passage of Messer' Fazio's house, a mandolin still tinkling over the archway behind us, and a door opening upon a company seated at table, the faces of all—and of Mr. Fett especially—very distinct under the lamp-light. They rose—it seemed, all at once—to welcome us, and their faces wavered as they rose.