Isabel shed no tears. She closed her lover's eyes; gave him one long, last kiss; and, as she bent over him, her hair was soaked in his blood. She took the mantle, wet with gore, and pressed it to her heart. "Precious mantle," said she, "we need not part; in three days—or perchance he said three hours—we shall lie together in the coffin! Until then, Riccardo, farewell!"
Slowly she turned and left the horrible place. Without faltering she came up the long moonlit avenue, her head thrown back, and her large, lustrous eyes fixed upon heaven, as though she sought to find her lover's soul somewhere among the floating clouds.
The moon flung its radiance around her path; and ever, as she walked, it grew brighter, until the poor, stricken child of earth looked like a glorified saint. "God grant that it be three hours!" murmured she; "three days were an eternity!"
She reached the palace, without having thought that there was no door open by which she could enter, when suddenly a form emerged from the shadowed wall, and a woman's voice whispered:
"Quick, for Heaven's sake! the side-door is open, and all in the palace sleep!"
"I, too, in three hours shall sleep!" cried Isabella, triumphantly, and with these words she fell to the ground in a swoon. [Footnote: Caroline Pichler, "Memoirs of My Life." Part I. page 139.]
CHAPTER XIII.
ISABELLA OF PARMA.
The Princess Isabella slept unusually late the next morning. Her little bell, that summoned the ladies of honor, had not yet rung, and the day was far advanced. The first cameriera seemed troubled, and whispered her apprehensions that the princess was sick; for she had observed, for some days, she said, that her highness had looked pale.
"But we must go into her room, ladies," added she; "for it is almost time for her highness to visit the duke, and he never forgives an omission of ceremonial. Follow me, then; I will undertake to awaken the princess."