The broken-hearted girl could only moan. The American racked his brains for a solution of the difficulty and wished John Bull and Rupert were with him. It would be utterly hopeless to approach the gate with the girl in his arms. What would happen if he could not get her out that night? Suddenly the girl rose to her feet. Pride had come to her rescue.
"Come, Monsieur Bronco," she said in a dead, emotionless voice. "Let me get home," and began to walk like an automaton. Slipping his arm through hers, the American guided and supported her, and in time, Carmelita awoke from a terrible dream to find herself at home. The Russian girl, in some clothing and a wrap of Carmelita's, admitted them at the back door.
"Get her some brandy," said the Bucking Bronco. "Shall I open the Caffy and serve fer yew, Carmelita, ma gel?" he asked.
Before he could translate his question into Legion French, Carmelita had understood, partly from his gestures. She shook her head.
Olga Kyrilovitch looked a mute question at the American. He nodded slightly. Carmelita caught the unspoken communication between the two.
"Yes," she said, turning to Olga, "you were right.... They were all right. And I was wrong.... He is the basest, meanest scoundrel who ever betrayed a woman. I do not realise it yet--I am stunned.... And I am punished too. I shall die or go mad when I understand.... And I want to be alone. Go now, dear Signor Orso Americano, and take my love and this message to Signor Jean Boule. I kiss his boots in humility and apology, and if he will kill this Rivoli for me I will be his slave for life."
"Let me kill him fer yew, Carmelita," begged the American as he turned to go, and then paused as his face lit up with the brightness of an idea. "No," he said. "Almighty God! I got another think come. I'll come an' see yew to-morrow, Carmelita--and make yew a proposal about Mounseer Loojey as'll do yew good." At the door he beckoned to the Russian girl.
"Look at hyar, Miss Mikhail," he whispered. "Stand by her like a man to-night. Nuss her, and coddle her and soothe her. You see she don't do herself no harm. Yew hev' her safe and in her right mind in the mornin'--an' we'll git yew and yure brother outer Sidi or my name ain't Hyram Cyrus Milton."
§3
That night was one of the most unforgettable of all the memorable nights through which Olga Kyrilovitch ever lived in the course of her adventurous career. For it was the only night during which she was shut up with a violent and dangerous homicidal maniac. In addition to fighting for her own life, the girl had, at times, to fight for that of her assailant, and she deserved well of the Bucking Bronco. Nature at length asserted herself and Carmelita collapsed. She slept, and awoke in the middle of the next day as sane as a person can be, every fibre of whose being yearns and tingles with one fierce obsession. Even to the experienced Russian girl, the wildness of the Neapolitan revenge-passion was an alarming revelation.