The deaf old woman had heard the shot, and she came upstairs panting and with a pallid face.
"Mercy, Signora! What's happened? The Blessed Virgin save us! A revolver!"
Roma tried to speak with unconcern. It was Mr. Rossi's revolver. She had found it in the bureau. It must be loaded—it had gone off.
The words were vague, but the tone quieted the old woman. "Thank the saints it's nothing worse. But why are you so pale, Signora? What is the matter with you?"
Roma averted her eyes. "Wouldn't you be pale too if a thing like this had gone off in your hands?"
By this time the Garibaldian had hobbled up behind his wife, and when all was explained the old people announced that they were going out to see the illuminations on the Pincio.
"They begin at eleven o'clock and go on to twelve or one, Signora. Everybody in the house has gone already, or the shot would have made a fine sensation."
"Good-night, Tommaso! Good-night, Francesca!"
"Good-night, Signora. We'll have to leave the street door open for the lodgers coming back, but you'll close your own door and be as safe as sardines."
The Garibaldian raised his pork-pie hat and left the door ajar. It was half-past ten and the piazza was very quiet. Roma sat down to write a letter.