“Fabio? Fabio?” he gasped. “He died—I saw him in his coffin—”
I leaned more closely over him. “I was buried alive,” I said with thrilling distinctness. “Understand me, Guido—buried alive! I escaped—no matter how. I came home—to learn your treachery and my own dishonor! Shall I tell you more?”
A terrible shudder shook his frame—his head moved restlessly to and fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead. With my own handkerchief I wiped his lips and brow tenderly—my nerves were strung up to an almost brittle tension—I smiled as a woman smiles when on the verge of hysterical weeping.
“You know the avenue,” I said, “the dear old avenue, where the nightingales sing? I saw you there, Guido—with her!—on the very night of my return from death—she was in your arms—you kissed her—you spoke of me—you toyed with the necklace on her white breast!”
He writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement.
“Tell me—quick!” he gasped. “Does—she—know you?”
“Not yet!” I answered, slowly. “But soon she will—when I have married her!”
A look of bitter anguish filled his straining eyes. “Oh, God, God!” he exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. “This is horrible, too horrible! Spare me—spare—” A rush of blood choked his utterance. His breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of approaching dissolution spread itself gradually over his countenance. Staring wildly at me, he groped with his hands as though he searched for some lost thing. I took one of those feebly wandering hands within my own, and held it closely clasped.
“You know the rest,” I said gently; “you understand my vengeance! But it is all over, Guido—all over, now! She has played us both false. May God forgive you as I do!”
He smiled—a soft look brightened his fast-glazing eyes—the old boyish look that had won my love in former days.