In my agony that she should know, I could do nothing but seek greater darkness. I felt myself beaten, dizzy with beatings. That thing which I had done in Paris discredited me. A man whose head-top had borne an advertisement of the Folie-Rouge to think he could be making a combat with the Prince Caravacioli!
Leaning over the railing in the darkest corner of the terrace, I felt my hand grasped secondarily by that good friend of mine.
“God bless you!” whispered Poor Jr.
“On my soul, I believe he’s done himself. Listen!”
I turned. That beautiful lady had stepped out into the light from the salon door. I could see her face shining, and her eyes—ah me, how glorious they were! Antonio followed her.
“But wait,” he cried pitifully.
“Not for you!” she answered, and that voice of hers, always before so gentle, rang out as the Roman trumpets once rang from this same cliff. “Not for you! I saw him there with his painted head and I understood! You saw him there, and you did nothing to help him! And the two little children—your nieces, too,—and he your brother!”
Then my heart melted and I found myself choking, for the beautiful lady was weeping.
“Not for you, Prince Caravacioli,” she cried, through her tears,—“Not for you!”