He struggled with me, his voice full of an entreating frenzy.
“Geoletti!” I cried, gripping him with force, “what is it? what is the matter with you? You heard and saw him. Was it not the man?”
He only writhed the harder.
“Signore, I see somsing—I hear somsing! But his eyes—my God! zey see everysing—his soul go into the deep places—zey look round the door when his voice spik, though he not move his body.”
Quite suddenly he swayed and fell over. I don’t know whether or not he was seized with a sort of fit. He lay rigid and staring, and foam appeared on his lips. But in a minute it was over. He came to himself, sane once more, but dazed and for the moment quite helpless and exhausted.
What devilish cantrip had so overthrown his reason? But, from whatever cause, the moral of his seizure was plain to me. Henceforth, on my shoulders alone must rest the main burden of the Nemesis.
Hours passed before the man was sufficiently himself again to justify my use of him for witness. And, in the meanwhile, how was my love accounting for my tardiness?
CHAPTER XXIII.
GEOLETTI TELLS HIS STORY
She came to me, dear love, the moment I had entered the house. Her sweet eyes, wet and wild, were full of sorrow and unmeant reproach. They gave one startled glance at the Italian, where he stood behind me, deferential in the shadows, and then came back in mute appealing to my face.
“Sit down here, Geoletti,” I said, “until I send for you.”