Blake's hand was upon Oliveta's bell when the door opened and she confronted him. Her start, her frightened cry, gave evidence of the nervous dread under which she labored.
"Don't be afraid, Oliveta," he said, quickly. "I come with news—good news."
She swayed and groped blindly for support. He put out his hand to sustain her, but she shrank away from him, saying, faintly: "Then he is captured? God be praised!"
In spite of the words, her eyes filmed over with tears, a look of abject misery bared itself upon her face.
"Where is the Countess?"
"Above—resting. Come; she, too, will rejoice."
"Let me take her the news. You were going out, and—I think the air will do you good. Be brave, Oliveta; you have done your share, and there's nothing more to fear."
She acquiesced dully; her olive features were ghastly as she felt her way past him; she walked like a sick woman.
He watched her pityingly for a moment, then mounted the stairs. As he laid his hand upon the door it gave to his touch and he stood upon the threshold of the parlor. Vittoria's name was upon his lips when, by the dim evening light which came through the drawn curtains and by the faint illumination from the solitary shrine candle, he saw her recumbent form upon the couch.
She was lying in an attitude of complete relaxation, her sun-gilded hair straying in long thick braids below her waist, Those tawny ropes were of a length and thickness to bind a man about the body. Her lips were slightly parted; her lashes lay like dark shadows against her ivory cheeks.