“I knew your voice,” he said, weakly. “Why have you come back?”
“To tell you to fly! The mob will be here!”
He seemed to be in a stupor of fear. “I thought I heard them,” he said, huskily. “Are they coming to the palace?”
“Yes; they have broken through the military lines. Signor Ulrich told me.”
“Signor Ulrich! You saw him?”
“Yes; he has fled. He said that he heard them crying out against you!”
“What did they say at the Questura? Am I not to have my guard of carbineers?”
“There is no time for a guard,” she answered, taking hold of his sleeve. “I tell you that the mob is approaching up Via Cappuccini. Come! We can go out by the Corso gate.”
“Yes; let us go,” he said, and started across the vast apartment, Hera at his side, while the candle in his shaking hand made their shadows do a strange fandango. In their ears was the roar of human fury, sifted by the encompassing walls into a haunting murmur. They passed the picture of Heribert and his warriors and were at the point of setting foot in the corridor, when they halted and looked each other in the face.
“My God!” Tarsis breathed, and would have let fall the candle, but Hera caught it and held it still lighted. “It is too late!”