"Cecchino!... Cecchino!... hear me,"—but could say no more.
"Prepare to die ... you have one hour ... half an hour; ... no, ... only five minutes of life...."
"Hear me, ... let me speak...."
"Make your peace with God; ... but it is useless; traitors cannot enter heaven...."
"I cannot...."
"Have you finished?"
Mary, in agony, unable to utter a single word, made a sign of denial with her hand; and its expression was indescribable. Ineffable sorrow oppressed her to think that a few words might calm this tempest, soothe the anger, save so many dear lives, and yet she could not utter a word. Cecchino, as if possessed with a devil, impatient of delay, his passions becoming more cruel in the thought of bloodshed, could hardly wait, so anxious was he to stain his hands with her blood. Poor woman!
"If you are not anxious to end this, know that I am eager to begin...."
Unsheathing his dagger, he stretched out his hand to grasp her. Mary, uttering a cry, fell senseless to the ground. Cecchino, his heart closed to pity, did not wait; he bent down to plunge his dagger in her bosom, and tearing her clothes aside, saw with wonder a letter drop from them: fancying it might be from the hated betrayer of his happiness, he was glad to think that now his revenge might reach even him. Taking up the letter and drawing nearer to the light, he read on the outside: