"Oh, Violet, don't!" she cried, lifting her white hands as if to ward off a blow. "I have done nothing! I love you all. I would give my life to make you and Ronald and Walter happy. Tell me of Walter. He is not dead—he will not die! Oh, Violet, do not tell me so! I could not bear it!"
"There has been a duel," Violet cried. "They met outside of the city this morning, and fought. That dreadful man—your husband—shot Walter, and got away himself. We did not know one thing, Lina, till they brought our poor boy home."
"Dead?" Jaquelina asked, with pitiful anguish in face and voice.
"Not dead—but—dying—we fear," wept Violet, wildly.
The beautiful singer knelt by the side of the agitated girl, who had thrown herself down on a silken couch, sobbing and weeping in utter hysterical abandonment. She put her arms around her, and drew the golden head to a resting-place upon her breast.
"Oh, Violet," she murmured, smoothing back the disheveled tresses with gentle fingers, "do not give way so utterly. Try to be calm. It may not be so bad as you think. I cannot believe that Walter will die. He is young and strong. Let us pray that God will spare his life."
There was some moments of utter silence. Violet's grief had spent itself for awhile. She lay passive on Jaquelina's tender breast, her golden eyelids resting on her pallid cheeks.
The delicate lips of the prima donna moved silently for a little while, as if in prayer—perhaps for the wounded man who lay up stairs breathing painfully and shortly. Then she spoke:
"Violet, you will tell me how it all came about? Why did they fight?"
"It was for your sake, Lina," Violet replied, moving uneasily from the clasp of her arm and opening her eyes a moment.