Giulia’s anguish had risen to that point at which such feelings become intolerable, and suggest the most desperate remedies—suicide,—when a low knock behind the pale-blue arras suddenly imparted hope to her soul.
Hastily raising the tapestry on that side whence the sound had emanated, she drew back the bolt of a little door communicating with a private staircase (usually found in all Italian mansions at that period), and the robber chief entered the room.
“Have you succeeded?” was Giulia’s rapid question.
“Your ladyship’s commission has been executed,” replied Stephano, who, we should observe, had laid aside his black mask ere he appeared in the presence of the countess.
“Ah! now I seem to live—breathe again!” cried Giulia, a tremendous weight suddenly removed from her mind.
Stephano produced the jewel-case from beneath his cloak; and as the countess hastily took it—nay, almost snatched it from him, he endeavored to imprint a kiss upon her fair hand.
Deep was the crimson glow which suffused her countenance—her neck—even all that was revealed of her bosom, as she drew haughtily back, and with a sublime patrician air of offended pride.
“I thank you—thank you from the bottom of my soul, Signor Verrina,” she said in another moment; for she felt how completely circumstances had placed her in the power of the bandit-chief, and how useless it was to offend him. “Here is your reward,” and she presented him a heavy purse of gold.
“Nay, keep the jingling metal, lady,” said Stephano; “I stand in no need of it—at least for the present. The reward I crave is of a different nature, and will even cost you less than you proffer me.”
“What other recompense can I give you?” demanded Giulia, painfully alarmed.