It was not yet five o'clock in the morning when a mysterious stir in the little street awoke him. Excited voices and hasty steps sounding confusedly together. Was it fire? The confusion increased. Something had happened. He hurried on his clothes and went down. The air was raw. In the lustreless morning light there was a pale, reddish shimmer. The sparrows on the roofs twittered over loud. Under Delileo's window stood a few people; untidy women rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, some men in blouses, on their way to work. Like a little flock of vultures, with greedy eyes and outstretched heads, they jostled one another.
The woman of the green grocer shop was speaking. Her face expressed pride at having assisted at some awful event Gesa heard her say:
"I tell you they have just sent my boy to the apothecary. But it's too late--much too late!"
"Has Monsieur Delileo had a stroke?" cried Gesa, breathlessly.
"Mon-sieur De-lileo?" repeated the women. A few of them turned away.
"Annette!" he reeled. "What! What!"
Half beside himself he rushed up the stairs, and burst open the door of his promised bride's chamber. He knew the room well. It was the same which years ago he had occupied with his mother. Only now it was more daintily furnished.
Old Delileo sat on the edge of the little bed, and gazed in tearless despair at something which the white curtains hid.
"Father!" cried Gesa.
Then the old man rose trembling in every limb, passed his hand across his brow--his poor yellow face working....