“Hush—hush!” she said, in a low, terrified whisper. “Look! how still he stands! how pale he seems! Do not speak—do not move—hush! he must not hear your voice—I will go to him and tell him all—all—” She rose and stretched out her arms with a gesture of entreaty:
“Guido! Guido!”
With a sudden chilled awe at my heart I looked toward the spot that thus riveted her attention—all was shrouded in deep gloom. She caught my arm.
“Kill him!” she whispered, fiercely—“kill him, and then I will love you! Ah!” and with an exclamation of fear she began to retire swiftly backward as though confronted by some threatening figure. “He is coming—nearer! No, no, Guido! You shall not touch me—you dare not—Fabio is dead and I am free—free!” She paused—her wild eyes gazed upward—did she see some horror there? She put up both hands as though to shield herself from some impending blow, and uttering a loud cry she fell prone on the stone floor insensible. Or dead? I balanced this question indifferently, as I looked down upon her inanimate form. The flavor of vengeance was hot in my mouth, and filled me with delirious satisfaction. True, I had been glad, when my bullet whizzing sharply through the air had carried death to Guido, but my gladness had been mingled with ruthfulness and regret. Now, not one throb of pity stirred me—not the faintest emotion of tenderness, Ferrari’s sin was great, but she tempted him—her crime outweighed his. And now—there she lay white and silent—in a swoon that was like death—that might be death for aught I knew—or cared! Had her lover’s ghost indeed appeared before the eyes of her guilty conscience? I did not doubt it—I should scarcely have been startled had I seen the poor pale shadow of him by my side, as I musingly gazed upon the fair fallen body of the traitress who had wantonly wrecked both our lives.
“Ay, Guido,” I muttered, half aloud—“dost see the work? Thou art avenged, frail spirit—avenged as well as I—part thou in peace from earth and its inhabitants!—haply thou shalt cleanse in pure fire the sins of thy lower nature, and win a final pardon; but for her—is hell itself black enough to match her soul?”
And I slowly moved toward the stairway; it was time, I thought, with a grim resolve—to leave her! Possibly she was dead—if not—why then she soon would be! I paused irresolute—the wild wind battered ceaselessly at the iron gateway, and wailed as though with a hundred voices of aerial creatures, lamenting. The torches were burning low, the darkness of the vault deepened. Its gloom concerned me little—I had grown familiar with its unsightly things, its crawling spiders, its strange uncouth beetles, the clusters of blue fungi on its damp walls. The scurrying noises made by bats and owls, who, scared by the lighted candles, were hiding themselves in holes and corners of refuge, startled me not at all—I was well accustomed to such sounds. In my then state of mind, an emperor’s palace were less fair to me than this brave charnel house—this stone-mouthed witness of my struggle back to life and all life’s misery. The deep-toned bell outside the cemetery struck one! We had been absent nearly two hours from the brilliant assemblage left at the hotel. No doubt we were being searched for everywhere—it mattered not! they would not come to seek us here. I went on resolutely toward the stair—as I placed my foot on the firm step of the ascent, my wife stirred from her recumbent position—her swoon had passed. She did not perceive me where I stood, ready to depart—she murmured something to herself in a low voice, and taking in her hand the falling tresses of her own hair she seemed to admire its color and texture, for she stroked it and restroked it and finally broke into a gay laugh—a laugh so out of all keeping with her surroundings, that it startled me more than her attempt to murder me.
She presently stood up with all her own lily-like grace and fairy majesty; and smiling as though she were a pleased child, she began to arrange her disordered dress with elaborate care. I paused wonderingly and watched her. She went to the brigand’s chest of treasure and proceeded to examine its contents—laces, silver and gold embroideries, antique ornaments, she took carefully in her hands, seeming mentally to calculate their cost and value. Jewels that were set as necklaces, bracelets and other trinkets of feminine wear she put on, one after the other, till her neck and arms were loaded—and literally blazed with the myriad scintillations of different-colored gems. I marveled at her strange conduct, but did not as yet guess its meaning. I moved away from the staircase and drew imperceptibly nearer to her—Hark! what was that? A strange, low rumbling like a distant earthquake, followed by a sharp cracking sound; I stopped to listen attentively. A furious gust of wind rushed round the mausoleum shrieking wildly like some devil in anger, and the strong draught flying through the gateway extinguished two of the flaring candles. My wife, entirely absorbed in counting over Carmelo Neri’s treasures, apparently saw and heard nothing. Suddenly she broke into another laugh—a chuckling, mirthless laugh such as might come from the lips of the aged and senile. The sound curdled the blood in my veins—it was the laugh of a mad-woman! With an earnest, distinct voice I called to her:
“Nina! Nina!”
She turned toward me still smiling—her eyes were bright, her face had regained its habitual color, and as she stood in the dim light, with her rich tresses falling about her, and the clustering gems massed together in a glittering fire against her white skin, she looked unnaturally, wildly beautiful. She nodded to me, half graciously, half haughtily, but gave me no answer. Moved with quick pity I called again:
“Nina!”