"Hurt me? And what does that matter? Have no pity, no pity! Do not weep over the beautiful eyes of the wounded hare!"
The words broke between her teeth. Her contracted lips opened in a convulsion of wild laughter that was like heart-rending sobs. Her companion shuddered, spoke to her in a low tone, aware of the curious eyes of the women who sat at the thresholds of their cabins.
"Calm yourself! Calm yourself! Oh, Foscarina, I beg of you! Do not act so, I entreat! We shall soon be at the quay, and then we shall go home. I will tell you—You will understand me then. Come, now we are in the street. Do you hear me?"
He feared she would fall in her hysterical convulsion, and stood ready to support her. But she only walked faster, unable to speak, smothering that wild laughter with her bandaged hand.
"What ails you? What do you see?" Stelio inquired anxiously.
Never could he forget the change in those eyes. They were dull, staring, sightless, yet they seemed to see something that was not there; they were filled with an unknown vision, occupied by some monstrous image which without doubt had generated that mad and anguished laughter.
"Shall we stop here a little while? Would you like some water?"
They found themselves now on the Fondamenta dei Vetrai. How long was it since they had walked beside the stagnant canal? How much of their life had vanished in the interval? What profound shadow were they leaving behind them?
Having descended into the gondola, and wrapped herself in her cloak, La Foscarina tried to control her hysteria, holding her face with both hands, but from time to time the terrible laugh would escape; then she pressed her hands closer to her mouth, as if she were trying to suffocate herself.