Pity him in that minute. I think, poor wretch, his state was near the worse—so strong, and yet so helpless. He shrieked, he struck himself, he blasphemed. Monstrous? it was monstrous beyond all human limits of malignity. So the ring had sped and wrought! What had this angel done, but been an angel? What had Cicada, so hide-bound in his own conceit of folly? Curst watchdogs both, to let themselves be fooled and chained away while the wolf was ravening their lamb!
He sobbed, fighting for breath:—
'Messer Topo, Messer Topo! Thou art the only gentleman! I crave thy forgiveness, O, I crave thy forgiveness for that slander! A rat! I'll love them always—a better gentleman, a better friend, bringing us together!'
With the thought, he flung himself down on the floor, and put his ear to the hole. Still, very faint and remote, the music came leaking by it—a voice; the throb of a lute.
He changed his ear for his lips:—
'Bernardo!' he screamed; 'Bernardo! Bernardo!' and listened anew.
The music had ceased—that was certain. It was succeeded by a confused, indistinguishable murmur, which in its turn died away.
'Bernardo!' he screeched again, and lay hungering for an answer.
It came to him, suddenly, in one rapturous soft cry:—
'Carlo!'