“Who?” cried Despard, eagerly.
“A woman named Compton.”
“Compton!”
“Yes. Perhaps she is dead. Alas, and alas, and alas, if she is! Yet could I but see that woman, I would tear the truth from her if I perished in the attempt!”
And Langhetti stretched out his long, slender hand, as though he were plucking out the very heart of some imaginary enemy.
“Think, Teresuola,” said he, after a while, “if you were in captivity, what would become of my opera? Could I have the heart to think about operas, even if I believed that they contributed to the welfare of the world, if your welfare was at stake? Now you know that next to you stands Bice. I must try and save her—I must give up all. My opera must stand aside till it be God’s will that I give it forth. No, the one object of my life now must be to find Bice, to see her or to see Mrs. Compton, if she is alive.”
“Is the secret of so much importance?” asked Despard.
Langhetti looked at him with mournful meaning.
Despard looked at him wonderingly. What could he mean? How could any one affect him? His peace of mind! That had been lost long ago. And if this secret was so terrible it would distract his mind from its grief, its care, and its longing. Peace would be restored rather than destroyed.
“I must find her. I must find her,” said Langhetti, speaking half to himself. “I am weak; but much can be done by a resolute will.”