At last Pierre, at the appointed place of meeting, gave to the black nurse the answer he had promised. He had freely used the golden key with which he had been trusted, and had passed unscathed through many dangers in the accomplishment of his purpose. But as he shook himself in satisfaction that he was still sound in life and limb, he assured Phœbe that he dared not repeat the effort if the lady would give him the wealth of the whole city; that he must be asked no questions, and should quit Rome with the young Englishman.
The longed-for letter broke the heart of the poor young wife. It flashed a fearful light over the cause of the arrest, and the cruel means used to compel the victim to criminate himself. He had unwillingly sheltered for a night an enemy of the Government, and of Papal rule altogether; but as the manner in which the fact had been made known might not be told, the expedient of a false charge on pecuniary grounds was resorted to, as the visible shield of the invisible treachery practised upon the innocent and unsuspecting.
Phœbe watched the varying expression of her mistress's countenance as she read the brief note, until it dropped from her hands, and with a groan of agony and horror she exclaimed,—"I have murdered him!" And fell senseless into the motherly arms stretched out to receive her.
"Poor chile, poor dear chile!" murmured Phœbe. "De dear Lord gib peace. What any poor sorrowing heart do 'thout thee, Lord Jesus?"
It was long before the terrible seizure passed off, and Phœbe almost dreaded the return of complete consciousness, for in its transient intervals, the moan and look of anguish told eloquently of the crushing woe within.
At last a message delivered to Phœbe seemed to rouse her attention. It was to the effect that Father Pietro, the spiritual guide and confessor of the family, was in attendance, anxious to minister consolation to the dear daughter, of whose sorrow he had heard.
Instantly she rose, with form erect, and eyes flashing with rage and scorn:
"I will go to him; and, Phœbe, you remain at my side," she said.
But the tottering limbs refused their office, and the Countess was compelled to resume her couch, while the priest, calm and gentle, as if he brought good tidings from some angel's lips, came softly in with an invocation of peace and blessing.
"My daughter, I am grieved at your sorrow," he began; "but let us hope that all will yet be well. Doubtless the Count will easily explain away the imputation, and—"