He was about to turn from the window, impatient that Signor Ulrich did not come back—although the man had not had time, without the loss of a minute, to reach the Questura, submit the “demand,” and retrace his steps—when he noted that the faces of the people were turning all in one direction; their gaze was setting upon some one who approached from a point toward Cathedral Square that was beyond his range of vision. Waiting to see who or what it might be that attracted so much attention, he stood there, the curtains scarcely parted, dimly conscious of the rose flush in the sky beyond the trees.
Down the Corso he heard “Vivas!” shouted; a minute more and he saw a man on horseback drawing near; he wore no head covering save a bandage about his brows. The grim smile that was common to Tarsis in moments of triumph curved his lips. He needed no glass to know the rider; the sight of him stirred a nest of stinging memories.
“Cheer, you fools, cheer!” he muttered, glancing toward a group of acclaiming men. “It is your last chance. Never again will you see him alive!”
In the sinister delight of the certainty that there would be work for the Panther after all, he forgot for a moment the perils that hedged him round. He went to the last window of the palace’s long row, that he might keep the horseman in view as long as possible. At length he turned away well content, for he had seen him pass through the Venetian Gate.
CHAPTER XX
THE HEART’S LAW-MAKING
Aunt Beatrice’s pride of blood was large and her sympathy for the peasant folk small; yet, when it came to expressing a primary emotion she was not above borrowing from the rugged phrases of her humbler neighbours. Thus it fell out that when she had recovered from the shock of Hera’s home-coming so far as to credit her bewildered senses, and hold the appalling situation in perspective, she summed it up in this wise:
“We have indeed returned to our muttons.”
It was in the solitude of her own apartment that she arrived at this homely epitome, and saw, in despair, that the final crash of the House of Barbiondi was near. By her niece’s eccentricity, as she chose to call it, the future of ease her genius designed and made a reality had been transformed into one of poverty, with the abominable insecurities and detestable humiliations that had haunted nearly all her days. A picture of money-lenders, dress-makers, tailors, and purveyors of meat and drink, each with a bill in hand, marching in clamorous phalanx through the villa gateway, rose to her excited fancy and made her flesh creep. She knew that she would never be able again to play Amazon against those storming hosts. Of courage and strategic skill she had proved herself the abundant possessor throughout the family’s uncertain career, but now her spirit lay crushed in the dust, like that of a military commander who has seen a magnificent victory ruthlessly flung away.
The frosty welcome that Hera received from her aunt did not surprise, however it may have pained her; but she had comfort in the assurance that her father’s arms would be open to greet her; she knew the loyalty of his affection and sympathy as well as she comprehended the frailty of his nature in other respects. When he entered the room she flew to his outstretched arms, and without a word being spoken as to the occasion of her return she saw in his eye a light of understanding.
“I have come home to stay, babbo,” was all she felt it needful to tell him.