It was a question that I left unheeded. I bade her brace herself and have courage for the tale I was to tell. I assured her that the horror of it was all passed and that she had naught to fear. So soon as her natural curiosity should be satisfied it should be hers to return to her brother at the Palace.
“But how came I thence?” she cried. “I must have lain in a swoon, for I remember nothing.” And then her swift mind, leaping to a reasonable conclusion; and assisted, perhaps, by the memory of the shattered catafalque which she had seen—“Did they account me dead, Lazzaro?” she asked of a sudden, her eyes dilating with a curious affright as they were turned upon my own.
“Yes, Madonna,” answered I, “you were accounted dead.” And, with that, I told her the entire story of what had befallen, saving only that I left my own part unmentioned, nor sought to explain my opportune presence in the church. When I spoke of the coming of Ramiro and his knaves she shuddered and closed her eyes in very awe. At length, when I had done, she opened them again, and again she turned them full upon me. Their brightness seemed to increase a moment, and then I saw that she was quietly weeping.
“And you were there to save me, Lazzaro?” she murmured brokenly. “Lazzaro mio, it seems that you are ever at hand when I have need of you. You are indeed my one true friend—the one true friend that never fails me.”
“Are you feeling stronger, Madonna?” I asked abruptly, roughly almost.
“Yes, I am stronger.” She stood up as if to test her strength. “Indeed little ails me saving the horror of this thing. The thought of it seems to turn me sick and dizzy.”
“Sit then and rest,” said I. “Presently, when you are more recovered, we will set out.”
“Whither shall we go?” she asked.
“Why, to the Palace, to your brother.”
“Why, yes,” she answered, as though it were the last suggestion that she had been expecting, “And to-morrow—it will be to-morrow, will it not?—comes the Lord Ignacio to claim his bride. He will owe you no mean thanks, Lazzaro.”