“A little man no bigger than Admiral Nelson?”
“A little man no bigger than the Admiral.”
“It was he?”
He nodded.
“And did he know of it?”
Will told her of the interview we had involuntarily witnessed.
“And you say she is dead?”
“That is the saddest of all. The Princes of Favara were of the ancient family of Mardolce, so called from the little lake of good water which was the most valued possession of the Norman founder of their family—a mere pond now. There was a prophecy that the last of the race should perish through the love of a fair-haired stranger from the North; and the sweetest woman of Sicily, the last of her race, drowned herself in the Mardolce for love of the Admiral.”
“Did every one know it?—had it become a scandal?”
“No; only he and My Lady, and Trinder, who sent me up word, knew of the cause, when the news was brought to the flagship by the Sirena from Palermo yesterday. She had, it seems, begged the Admiral to bring her in the Foudroyant with the Hamiltons, when he left Palermo for Naples two or three weeks since; and, when he refused, she humbled her pride and begged my Lady Hamilton, whom she hated, as her worst enemy, and despised, to intercede for her. My Lady is generous, and used her utmost entreaties—though she knew the reason—but in vain; and the next day after we sailed poor Rusidda was found in the Mardolce,” replied Will, very white.