"She lives! she lives!" he cries—"her heart beats! Thank God, I have not killed her!"
This leap from death to life is too much for him; he staggers to his feet, falls into a chair, and sobs aloud. Nera's eyelids tremble; she opens her eyes, her lips move.
"Nera, my child, my darling, speak to me!" cries Madame Boccarini.
"Tell me that you can hear me."
Nera tries to raise her head, but in vain. It falls back upon the cushion.
"Home, mamma—home!" her lips feebly whisper.
At the sound of her voice Nobili starts up; he brushes away the tears that still roll down his cheeks. Again he lifts Nera tenderly in his arms. For that night Nera belongs to him; no one else shall touch her. He bears her down-stairs to a carriage. Then he disappears into the darkness of the night.
No one will leave the ball until there is some report of Nera's condition from the doctor who has been summoned. The gay groups sit around the glittering ballroom, and whisper to each other. The "golden youth" offer bets as to Nera's recovery; the ladies, who are jealous, back freely against it. In half an hour, however, Countess Orsetti is able to announce that "Nera Boccarini is better, and that, beyond the shock, it is hoped that she is not seriously hurt."
"You see, Malatesta, I was right," drawls out the languid Franchi as he descends the stairs. "You will believe me another time. You know I told you and Orsetti that Nera Boccarini and Nobili understood each other. He's desperately in love with her."
"I don't believe it, all the same," answers Malatesta, shaking his head. "A man can't half kill a girl and show no compunction—specially not Nobili—the best-hearted fellow breathing. Nobili is just the man to feel such an accident as that dreadfully. How splendid Nera looked to-night! She quite cut out the Ottolini." Malatesta spoke with enthusiasm; he had a practised eye for woman's fine points. "Here, Adonis—I beg your pardon—Baldassare, I mean—where are you going?"
"Home," replies the Greek mask.