"I was afraid. When I returned for you, you were gone. But last night I was a fugitive, in hiding. To-day I am free," with an exultant note.
"Free?" said Hillard, astonished.
"I shall explain. I have been to Paris. Come."
Seated by the window which overlooked the little canal was a young woman. Her hands lay passively in her lap, and her head was lowered. The pose was resignation. She did not stir as they entered.
"You have found her?" whispered Hillard, a great pity swelling his heart. What, after all, were his own petty troubles in the face of this tragedy?
"Carissime?" called the father, his voice thrilling with boundless love.
At the sound she turned her head. Her face, thin and waxen, was still beautiful, ethereally beautiful, but without life. She was, perhaps, three and twenty.
"I have brought an old friend to see you," said Giovanni. "Do you remember the Signore Hillard?"
"Oh, yes! I am glad." She stood up.
Hillard offered his hand awkwardly, and hers touched it with the chill dampness of snow.