“Ah!” she exclaimed at last, looking up at me seriously, “I am foolish to speak so, now that I am married.”
“Married!” I gasped in astonishment, at the same time noticing the ring upon her finger. “I thought this cottage was your father’s—that you kept house for him.”
There was a brief silence. Then she spoke. Her voice made me tremble, careless ingrate that I was. She uttered the words without moving, as though giving utterance to the thought that possessed her. For an hour I remained talking to her, then went forth again into the darkness.
The morning was chill and dull as I again walked along the beach-road until I came to the door of the cottage. I had spent a restless night; her misery tortured me, and despite her entreaty, I was now on my way to proffer assistance. With trepidation I approached the door of the humble abode, and knocked.
No one stirred. Everything seemed strangely silent.
A moment later I noticed the door was unlatched. Pushing it open, I entered, at the same time uttering her name.
As I stepped into the neat, well-kept room I at first saw nothing, but on glancing round the opposite side of the table my eyes encountered a sight that thrilled me with horror.
Stretched on the floor lay Ninetta, partially dressed, the pale morning light falling across her calm, upturned features. Falling on my knees, I touched her face with my hand. It was cold as marble. She was dead!
In her breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, and from the cruel wound the blood had oozed, forming a dark pool beside her.
My recollection of the events immediately following this ghastly discovery is but faint. I have a hazy belief that my mind became unhinged; that I left the place without informing any one of the tragedy, then walking many miles through woods and vineyards, I reached Ovada, whence I took train for Turin.