“Then he is in there!—in hiding.”
Springing over the crawling figure, he dashed through to the inner room, and, as Valentina uttered a piteous moan, the Conte flung open the bedroom door.
“Dog!—Coward!” he yelled, and then stopped, petrified at the sight of the motionless figure upon the bed. Then the door swung to between them, and he thrust back the little blade, and came stealthily out, muttering softly to himself as he bent over his wife, insensible to all that passed.
He was trembling violently now.
“I did not know,” he muttered to Cornel. “I struck him when I found them together, but I did not know. I—I must go—away. Your laws are bad. An affair of honour. Will—will she die too?”
“I cannot say,” replied Cornel coldly. “She must have better surgical help. I am only a nurse.”
“Yes,” he said hastily. “Better help. A great surgeon. She must not die. I will get a carriage and take her away.”
“It would be dangerous to move her.”
“More dangerous far to leave her here,” he muttered. Then aloud, “It must be risked, madam. But listen. You are his friend?”
“Yes.”