The fallen scoundrel was quick to the opportunity. He rose and fled, bloody and bemired, from the arbour. Madonna, seeing him escape, sunk, with a fainting sigh, upon her bench.
Carlo mouthed after his vanishing prey; yet he was tender with his burden.
'Love!' he groaned: 'Thou ow'st me? Not this—so damned to folly! There, let go. He was but the tool—and, for the rest——'
He glowered round.
'Hush!' said Bembo. 'It is but the fruits of her teaching. Blame not thy pupil, Carlo.'
'My pupil!'
'Is she Christ's—or art thou? Love gives life, Carlo; and all life is God's, since Christ redeemed it.'
'What then?'
'Why, is not thine honour thy life?'
'I would die at least to prove it.'