“Because it is imperative,” she replied. “But hush! listen! a voice! Dio! it is my husband!”
“Your husband!” I gasped. “What do you mean? I thought the Count died in Buenos Ayres two years ago, and that you were free?”
“So did I. But that was his voice. Cièlo! I know it, alas! too well,” she said, turning deathly pale.
Rushing suddenly across the room, she snatched something from a small niche in the wall and brought it over to me. It was a curious little ivory idol, about six inches long, representing Amida, the eternal Buddha. Kissing it, she handed it to me, saying—
“Quick! take this as a souvenir. It has been my talisman; may it be yours. When I am absent, look upon it sometimes, Gasparo, and think of me.”
“You do love me, then, Santina?” I cried joyously; for answer she placed her lips to mine.
“Hide! hide at once!” she implored. “Kneel behind that screen, or we are lost. Remain there until we have left the house, and tell no one that you have seen the Count. A rivederci!”
I slipped into the place she indicated, and not a moment too soon, for as I did so, a short, stout man of about sixty years of age entered. His face wore a strange, fixed expression, and as he strode in, he betrayed no astonishment at meeting his wife, although she, terrified and trembling, shrank from him.
“I thought you were ready,” he exclaimed roughly. “Be quick and put on your travelling dress. The carriage is on its way round, and we haven’t a moment to spare if we mean to leave to-night.”
“I shall not keep you long,” she sighed, and a few moments later they both turned and left the room.