THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 V 
 
 t 
 
 *
 
 " He looked at her long and sadly." Vol. I., p. 239.
 
 CASA BRACCIO 
 
 BY 
 
 F. MARION CRAWFOKD 
 
 AUTHOR or " SAKACINBSCA," " PIETRO GHISLERI," ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. CASTAIGNE 
 
 ffork 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND LONDON 
 
 1895 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 OoprKiOHT, 1894, 
 BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 
 
 Nortoooli $88 
 
 J. S. Gushing & Co. - Berwick & Smith 
 Norwood Man. U.S.A.
 
 
 THIS STORY, BEING MY TWENTY-FIFTH NOVEL, 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 SOKRENTO, 1895
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA . . . 
 
 PART II. 
 GLORIA DALRTMPLE 226
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Nanna and Annetta . 16 
 
 Maria Addolorata . . . . . . . . 25 
 
 '' Sor Tommaso was lying motionless '' . . . .78 
 
 " She had covered her face with the veil " , . 126 
 
 " An evil death on you !" 218 
 
 " He looked at her long and sadly " . . . . 239 
 " Fire and sleet and candle-light ; 
 
 And Christ receive thy soul " 324
 
 PART I. 
 
 SISTER MARIA ADD OL GRATA. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 SISTER MARIA ADDOLORATA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SUBIACO lies beyond Tivoli, southeast from 
 Rome, at the upper end of a wild gorge in the 
 Samnite mountains. It is an archbishopric, and 
 gives a title to a cardinal, which alone would make 
 it a town of importance. It shares with Monte 
 Cassino the honour of having been chosen by Saint 
 Benedict and Saint Scholastica, his sister, as the 
 site of a monastery and a convent ; and in a cell in 
 the rock a portrait of the holy man is still well 
 preserved, which is believed, not without reason, to 
 have been painted from life, although Saint Bene 
 dict died early in the fifth century. The town 
 itself rises abruptly to a great height upon a mass 
 of rock, almost conical in shape, crowned by the 
 cardinal's palace, and surrounded on three sides by 
 3
 
 4 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 rugged mountains. On the third, it looks down 
 the rapidly widening valley in the direction of 
 Vicovaro, near which the Licenza runs into the 
 Anio, in the neighbourhood of Horace's farm. It 
 is a very ancient town, and in its general appear 
 ance it does not differ very much from many simi 
 lar ones amongst the Italian mountains ; but its 
 position is exceptionally good, and its importance 
 has been stamped upon it by the hands of those 
 who have thought it worth holding since the days of 
 ancient Rome. Of late it has, of course, acquired 
 a certain modernness of aspect; it has planted 
 acacia trees in its little piazza, and it has a gor 
 geously arrayed municipal band. But from a little 
 distance one neither hears the band nor sees the 
 trees, the grim mediaeval fortifications frown upon 
 the valley, and the time-stained dwellings, great 
 and small, rise in rugged irregularity against the 
 lighter brown of the rocky background and the 
 green of scattered olive groves and chestnuts. 
 Those features, at least, have not changed, and 
 show no disposition to change during generations 
 to come. 
 
 In the year 1844, modern civilization had not 
 yet set in, and Subiaco was, within, what it still 
 appears to be from without, a somewhat gloomy 
 stronghold of the Middle Ages, rearing its battle 
 ments and towers in a shadowy gorge, above a 
 mountain torrent, inhabited by primitive and pas-
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 5 
 
 sionate people, dominated by ecclesiastical insti 
 tutions, and, though distinctly Roman, a couple of 
 hundred years behind Rome itself in all matters 
 ethic and aesthetic. It was still the scene of the 
 Santacroce murder, which really decided Beatrice 
 Cenci's fate; it was still the gathering place of 
 highwaymen and outlaws, whose activity found 
 an admirable field through all the region of hill 
 and plain between the Samnite range and the 
 sea, while the almost inaccessible fortresses of the 
 higher mountains, towards Trevi and the Serra di 
 Sant' Antonio, offered a safe refuge from the half 
 hearted pursuit of Pope Gregory's lazy soldiers. 
 
 Something of what one may call the life-and- 
 death earnestness of earlier times, when passion 
 was motive and prejudice was law, survived at 
 that time and even much later; the ferocity of 
 practical love and hatred dominated the theory 
 and practice of justice in the public life of the 
 smaller towns, while the patriarchal system sub 
 jected the family in almost absolute servitude to 
 its head. 
 
 There was nothing very surprising in the fact 
 that the head of the house of Braccio should have 
 obliged one of his daughters to take the veil in the 
 Convent of Carmelite nuns, just within the gate of 
 Subiaco, as his sister had taken it many years 
 earlier. Indeed, it was customary in the family 
 of the Princes of G-erano that one of the women
 
 6 CA8A B BAG CIO. 
 
 should be a Carmelite, and it was a tradition not 
 unattended with worldly advantages to the sister 
 hood, that the Braccio nun, whenever there was 
 one, should be the abbess of that particular con 
 vent. 
 
 Maria Teresa Braccio had therefore yielded, 
 though very unwillingly, to her father's insistence, 
 and having passed through her novitiate, had finally 
 taken the veil as a Carmelite of Subiaco, in the 
 year 1841, on the distinct understanding that when 
 her aunt died she was to be abbess in the elder 
 lady's stead. The abbess herself was, indeed, in 
 excellent health and not yet fifty years old, so 
 that Maria Teresa in religion Maria Addolorata 
 might have a long time to wait before she was 
 promoted to an honour which she regarded as 
 hereditary ; but the prospect of such promotion was 
 almost her only compensation for all she had left 
 behind her, and she lived upon it and concentrated 
 her character upon it, and practised the part she 
 was to play, when she was quite sure that she was 
 not observed. 
 
 Nature had not made her for a recluse, least of 
 all for a nun of such a rigid Order as the Carme 
 lites. The short taste of a brilliant social life 
 which she had been allowed to enjoy, in accordance 
 with an ancient tradition, before finally taking the 
 veil, had shown her clearly enough the value of 
 what she was to abandon, and at the same time
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 7 
 
 had altogether confirmed her father in his decision. 
 Compared with the freedom of the present day, the 
 restrictions imposed upon a young girl in the 
 Roman society of those times were, of course, 
 tyrannical in the extreme, and the average modern 
 young lady would almost as willingly go into a 
 convent as submit to them. But Maria Teresa had 
 received an impression which nothing could efface. 
 Her intuitive nature had divined the possible semi- 
 emancipation of marriage, and her temperament 
 had felt in a certain degree the extremes of joyous 
 exaltation and of that entrancing sadness which is 
 love's premonition, and which tells maidens what 
 love is before they know him, by making them 
 conscious of the breadth and depth of his yet 
 vacant dwelling. 
 
 She had learned in that brief time that she was 
 beautiful, and she had felt that she could love and 
 that she should be loved in return. She had seen 
 the world as a princess and had felt it as a woman, 
 and she had understood all that she must give up 
 in taking the veil. But she had been offered no 
 choice, and though she had contemplated opposi 
 tion, she had not dared to revolt. Being absolutely 
 in the power of her parents, so far as she was aware, 
 she had accepted the fatality of their will, and bent 
 her fair head to be shorn of its glory and her 
 broad forehead to be covered forever from the gaze 
 of men. And having submitted, she had gone
 
 8 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 through it all bravely and proudly, as perhaps she 
 would have gone through other things, even to 
 death itself, being a daughter of an old race, accus 
 tomed to deify honour and to make its divinities 
 of tradition. For the rest of her natural life she 
 was to live on the memories of one short, magnifi 
 cent year, forever to be contented with the grim 
 rigidity of conventual life in an ancient cloister 
 surrounded by gloomy mountains. She was to be 
 a veiled shadow amongst veiled shades, a priestess 
 of sorrow amongst sad virgins ; and though, if she 
 lived long enough, she was to be the chief of them 
 and their ruler, her very superiority could only 
 make her desolation more complete, until her own 
 shadow, like the others, should be gathered into 
 eternal darkness. 
 
 Sister Maria Addolorata had certain privileges 
 for which her companions would have given much, 
 but which were traditionally the right of such 
 ladies of the Braccio family as took the veil. For 
 instance, she had a cell which, though not larger 
 than the other cells, was better situated, for it had 
 Or little balcony looking over the convent garden, 
 and high enough to afford a view of the distant 
 valley and of the hills which bounded it, beyond 
 the garden wall. It was entered by the last door 
 in the corridor within, and was near the abbess ? s 
 apartment, which was entered from the corridor, 
 through a small antechamber which also gave
 
 CA8A BBACCIO. 9 
 
 access to the vast lineii-presses. The balcony, too, 
 had a little staircase leading down into the gar 
 den. It had always been the custom to carry the 
 linen to and from the laundry through Maria 
 Addolorata's cell, and through a postern gate in 
 the garden wall, the washing being done in the 
 town. By this plan, the annoyance was avoided 
 of carrying the huge baskets through the whole 
 length of the convent, to and from the main en 
 trance, which was also much further removed from 
 the house of Sora Nanna, the chief laundress. 
 Moreover, Maria Addolorata had charge of all the 
 convent linen, and the employment thus afforded 
 her was an undoubted privilege in itself, for occu 
 pation of any kind not devotional was excessively 
 scarce in such an existence. 
 
 In the eyes of the other nuns, the constant 
 society of the abbess herself was also a privilege, 
 and one not by any means to be despised. After 
 all, the abbess and her niece were nearly related, 
 they could talk of the affairs of their family, and 
 the abbess doubtless received many letters from 
 Rome containing all the interesting news of the 
 day, and all the social gossip perfectly innocent, 
 of course which was the chronicle of Roman 
 life. These were valuable compensations, and the 
 nuns envied them. The abbess, too, saw her 
 brother, the archbishop and titular cardinal of 
 Subiaco, when the princely prelate came out from
 
 10 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 Rome for the coolness of the mountains in August 
 and September, and his conversation was said to 
 be not only edifying, but fascinating. The cardinal 
 was a very good man, like many of the Braccio 
 family, but he was also a man of the world, who 
 had been sent upon foreign missions of importance, 
 and had acquired some worldly fame as well as 
 much ecclesiastical dignity in the course of his 
 long life. It must be delightful, the nuns thought, 
 to be his own sister, to receive long visits from 
 him, and to hear all he had to say about the busy 
 world of Home. To most of them, everything 
 beyond Home was outer darkness. 
 
 But though the nuns envied the abbess and 
 Maria Addolorata, they did not venture to say so, 
 and they hardly dared to think so, even when they 
 were all alone, each in her cell ; for the concentra 
 tion of conventual life magnifies small spiritual 
 sins in the absence of anything really sinful, and 
 to admit that she even faintly wishes she might 
 be some one else is to tarnish the brightness of 
 the nun's scrupulously polished conscience. It 
 would be as great a misdeed, perhaps, as to allow 
 the attention to wander to worldly matters during 
 times of especial devotion. Nevertheless, the envy 
 showed itself, very perceptibly and much against 
 the will of the sisters themselves, in a certain cold 
 deference of manner towards the young and beau 
 tiful nun who was one day to be the superior of
 
 CASA BKACCIO. 11 
 
 them all by force of circumstances for which she 
 deserved no credit. She had the position among 
 them, and something of the isolation, of a young 
 royal princess amongst the ladies of her queen 
 mother's court. 
 
 There was about her, too, an unde finable some 
 thing, like the shadow of future fate, a something 
 almost impossible to describe, and yet distinctly 
 appreciable to all who saw her and lived with her. 
 It came upon her especially when she was silent 
 and abstracted, when she was kneeling in her 
 place in the choir, or was alone upon her little bal 
 cony over the garden. At such times a luminous 
 pallor gradually took the place of her fresh and 
 healthy complexion, her eyes grew unnaturally 
 dark, with a deep, fixed fire in them, and the 
 regular features took upon them the white, set 
 straightness of a death mask. Sometimes, at such 
 moments, a shiver ran through her, even in summer, 
 and she drew her breath sharply once or twice, as 
 though she were hurt. The expression was not 
 one of suffering or pain, but was rather that of a 
 person conscious of some great danger which must 
 be met without fear or flinching. 
 
 She would have found it very hard to explain 
 what she felt just then. She might have said that 
 it was a consciousness of something unknown. 
 She could not have said more than that. It 
 brought no vision with it, beatific or horrifying;
 
 12 CA8A BBACCIO. 
 
 it was not the consequence of methodical contem 
 plation, as the trance state is ; and it was followed 
 by no reaction nor sense of uneasiness. It simply 
 came and went as the dark shadow of a thunder 
 cloud passing between her and the sun, and leaving 
 no trace behind. 
 
 There was nothing to account for it, unless it 
 could be explained by heredity, and no one had 
 ever suggested any such explanation to Maria. 
 It was true that there had been more than one 
 tragedy in the Braccio family since they had first 
 lifted their heads above the level of their con 
 temporaries to become Roman Barons, in the old 
 days before such titles as prince and duke had 
 come into use. But then, most of the old families 
 could tell of deeds as cruel and lives as passionate 
 as any remembered by Maria's race, and Italians, 
 though superstitious in unexpected ways, have 
 little of that belief in hereditary fate which is 
 common enough in the gloomy north. 
 
 "Was Sister Maria Addolorata a great sinner, 
 before she became a nun?" asked Annetta, Sora 
 Nanna's daughter, of her mother, one day, as they 
 came away from the convent. 
 
 "What are you saying!" exclaimed the washer 
 woman, in a tone of rebuke. " She is a great lady, 
 and the niece of the abbess and of the cardinal. 
 Sometimes certain ideas pass through your head, 
 ray daughter !"
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 13 
 
 And Sora Nanna gesticulated, unable to express 
 herself. 
 
 " Then she sins in her throat," observed Anuetta, 
 calmly. "But you do not even look at her so 
 many sheets so many pillow-cases and good 
 day ! But while you count, I look." 
 
 " Why should I look at her ? " inquired Nanna, 
 shifting the big empty basket she carried on her 
 head, hitching her broad shoulders and wrinkling 
 her leathery forehead, as her small eyes turned 
 upward. "Do you take me for a man, that I 
 should make eyes at a nun ? " 
 
 "And I? Am I a man? And yet I look at 
 her. I see nothing but her face when we are 
 there, and afterwards I think about it. What 
 harm is there? She sins in her throat. I know 
 it." 
 
 Sora Nanna hitched her shoulders impatiently 
 again, and said nothing. The two women de 
 scended through the steep and narrow street, 
 slippery and wet with slimy, coal black mud that 
 glittered on the rough cobble-stones. Kanua 
 walked first, and Annetta followed close behind 
 her, keeping step, and setting her feet exactly 
 where her mother had trod, with the instinctive 
 certainty of the born mountaineer. With heads 
 erect and shoulders square, each with one hand on 
 her hip and the other hanging down, they carried 
 their burdens swiftly and safely, with a swinging,
 
 14 CAS A BBACCIO, 
 
 undulating gait as though it were a pleasure to 
 them to move, and would require an effort to stop 
 rather than to walk on forever. They wore shoes 
 because they were well-to-do people, and chose to 
 show that they were when they went up to the 
 convent. But for the rest they were clad in the 
 costume of the neighbourhood, the coarse white 
 shift, close at the throat, the scarlet bodice, the 
 short, dark, gathered skirt, and the dark blue 
 carpet apron, with flowers woven on a white stripe 
 across the lower end. Both wore heavy gold ear 
 rings, and Sora Xanna had eight or ten strings of 
 large coral beads around her throat. 
 
 Annetta was barely fifteen years old, brown, 
 slim, and active as a lizard. She was one of those 
 utterly unruly and untamable girls of whom there 
 are two or three in every Italian village, in moun 
 tain or plain, a creature in whom a living conscious 
 ness of living nature took the place of thought, and 
 with whom to be conscious was to speak, without 
 reason or hesitation. The small, keen, black eyes 
 were set under immense and arched black eye 
 brows which made the eyes themselves seem larger 
 than they were, and the projecting temples cast 
 shadows to the cheek which hid the rudimentary 
 modelling of the coarse lower lids. The ears were 
 flat and ill-developed, but close to the head and 
 not large ; the teeth very short, though perfectly 
 regular and exceedingly white ; the lips long, mo-
 
 - 
 
 Nanna and Annetta. Vol. I., p. 15.
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 15 
 
 bile, brown rather than red, and generally parted 
 like those of a wild animal. The girl's smoothly 
 sinewy throat moved with every step, showing the 
 quick play of the elastic cords and muscles. Her 
 blue-black hair was plaited, though far from neatly, 
 and the braids were twisted into an irregular flat 
 coil, generally hidden by the flap of the white em 
 broidered cloth cross-folded upon her head and 
 hanging down behind. 
 
 For some minutes the mother and daughter con 
 tinued to pick their way down the winding lanes 
 between the dark houses of the upper village. Then 
 Sora Nanna put out her right hand as a signal to 
 Annetta that she meant to stop, and she stood still 
 on the steep descent and turned deliberately till 
 she could see the girl. 
 
 " What are you saying ? " she began, as though 
 there had been no pause in the conversation. 
 " That Sister Maria Addolorata sins in her throat ! 
 But how can she sin in her throat, since she sees 
 no man but the gardener and the priest ? Indeed, 
 you say foolish things ! " 
 
 "And what has that to do with it?" inquired 
 Annetta. " She must have seen enough of men in 
 Rome, every one of them a great lord. And who 
 tells you that she did not love one of them and 
 does not wish that she were married to him? And 
 if that is not a sin in the throat, I do not know 
 what to say. There is my answer."
 
 16 CA8A BRACCIO. 
 
 '- " You say foolish things," repeated, Sora .Nanna. 
 
 Then she turned deliberately away and began to 
 descend once more, with an occasional dissatisfied 
 movement of the shoulders. 
 
 "For the rest," observed Annetta, "it is not my 
 business. I would rather look at the Englishman 
 when he is eating meat than at Sister Maria when 
 she is counting clothes ! I do not know whether 
 he is a wolf or a man." 
 
 " Eh ! The Englishman ! " exclaimed Sora Nanna. 
 "You will look so much at the Englishman that 
 you will make blood with Gigetto, who wishes you 
 well, and when Gigetto has waited for the English 
 man at the corner of the forest, what shall we all 
 have ? The galleys. What do you see in the 
 Englishman? He has red hair and long, long 
 teeth. Yes just like a wolf. You are right. 
 And if he pays for meat, why should he not eat 
 it ? If he did not pay, it would be different. It 
 would soon be finished. Heaven send us a little 
 money without any Englishman ! Besides, Gigetto 
 said the other day that he would wait for him at 
 the corner of the forest. And Gigetto, when he 
 says a thing, he does it." 
 
 " And why should we go to the galleys if Gigetto 
 waits for the Englishman ? " inquired Annetta. 
 
 "Silly!" cried the older woman. "Because 
 Gigetto would take your father's gun, since he has 
 none of his own. That would be enough. We 
 should have done it ! "
 
 CAS A EEACCIO. 17 
 
 Annetta shrugged her shoulders and said nothing. 
 
 " But take care," continued Sora Nanna. " Your 
 father sleeps with one eye open. He sees you, and 
 he sees also the Englishman every day. He says 
 nothing, because he is good. But he has a fist like 
 a paving-stone. I tell you nothing more." 
 
 They reached Sora Nanna's house and disap 
 peared under the dark archway. For Sora Kauna 
 and Stefanone, her husband, were rich people for 
 their station, and their house was large and was 
 built with an arch wide enough and high enough 
 for a loaded beast of burden to pass through with 
 a man on its back. And, within, everything was 
 clean and well kept, excepting all that belonged to 
 Annetta. There were airy upper rooms, with well- 
 swept floors of red brick or of beaten cement, fur 
 nished with high beds on iron trestles, and wooden 
 stools of well-worn brown oak, and tables painted 
 a vivid green, and primitive lithographs of Saint 
 Benedict and Santa Scholastica and the Addolorata. 
 And there were lofts in which the rich autumn 
 grapes were hung up to dry on strings, and where 
 chestnuts lay in heaps, and figs were spread in 
 symmetrical order on great sheets of the coarse 
 grey paper made in Subiaco. There were apples, 
 too, though poor ones, and there were bins of maize 
 and wheat, waiting to be picked over before being 
 ground in the primeval household mill. And there 
 were hams and sides of bacon, and red peppers, and 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 CAS A BE AC CIO. 
 
 bundles of dried herbs, and great mountain cheeses 
 on shelves. There Avas also a guest room, better 
 than the rest, which Stefanone and his wife occa 
 sionally let to respectable travellers or to the mer 
 chants who came from Koine on business to stay 
 a few days in Subiaco. At the present time the 
 room was rented by the Englishman concerning 
 whom the discussion had arisen between Annetta 
 and her mother. 
 
 Angus Dalrymple, M.D., was not an Englishman, 
 as he had tried to explain to Sora Nanna, though 
 without the least success. He was, as his name 
 proclaimed, a Scotchman of the Scotch, and a 
 doctor of medicine. It was true that he had red 
 hair, and an abundance of it, and long white teeth, 
 but Sora Nanna's description was otherwise libel- 
 lously incomplete and wholly omitted all mention 
 of the good points in his appearance. In the first 
 place, he possessed the characteristic national build 
 in a superior degree of development, with all the 
 lean, bony energy which has done so much hard 
 work in the world. He was broad-shouldered, 
 long-armed, long-legged, deep-chested, and straight, 
 with sinewy hands and singularly well-shaped fin 
 gers. His healthy skin had that mottled look 
 produced by countless freckles upon an almost 
 childlike complexion. The large, grave mouth 
 generally concealed the long teeth objected to by 
 Sora Nanna, and the lips, though even and narrow,
 
 CAS A BRAG CIO. 19 
 
 were strong rather than thin, and their rare smile 
 was both genial and gentle. There were lines 
 as yet very faint about the corners of the mouth, 
 which told of a nervous and passionate disposition 
 and of the strong Scotch temper, as well as of a 
 certain sensitiveness which belongs especially to 
 northern races. The pale but very bright blue eyes 
 under shaggy auburn brows were fiery with courage 
 and keen with shrewd enterprise. Dalrymple was 
 assuredly not a man to be despised under any cir 
 cumstances, intellectually or physically. 
 
 His presence in such a place as Subiaco, at a 
 time when hardly any foreigners except painters 
 visited the place, requires some explanation ; for 
 he was not an artist, but a doctor, and had never 
 been even tempted to amuse himself with sketch 
 ing. In the first place, he was a younger son of 
 a good family, and received a moderate allowance, 
 quite sufficient in those days to allow him con 
 siderable latitude of expenditure in old-fashioned 
 Italy. Secondly, he had entirely refused to follow 
 any of the professions known as 'liberal.' He 
 had no taste for the law, and he had not the 
 companionable character which alone can make 
 life in the army pleasant in time of peace. His 
 beliefs, or his lack of belief, together with an 
 honourable conscience, made him naturally opposed 
 to all churches. On the other hand, he had been 
 attracted almost from his childhood by scientific
 
 20 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 subjects, at a period when the discoveries of the 
 last fifty years appeared as misty but beatific 
 visions to men of science. To the disappointment 
 and, to some extent, to the humiliation of his 
 family, he insisted upon studying medicine, at the 
 University of St. Andrew's, as soon as he had 
 obtained his ordinary degree at Cambridge. And 
 having once insisted, nothing could turn him from 
 his purpose, for he possessed English tenacity 
 grafted upon Scotch originality, with a good deal 
 of the strength of both races. 
 
 While still a student he had once made a tour 
 in Italy, and like many northerners had fallen 
 under the mysterious spell of the South from the 
 very first. Having a sufficient allowance for all 
 his needs, as has been said, and being attracted by 
 the purely scientific side of his profession rather 
 than by any desire to become a successful prac 
 titioner, it was natural enough that on finding 
 himself free to go whither he pleased in pursuit 
 of knowledge, he should have visited Italy again. 
 A third visit had convinced him that he should do 
 well to spend some years in the country; for by 
 that time he had become deeply interested in the 
 study of malarious fevers, which in those days 
 were completely misunderstood. It would be far 
 too much to say that young Dalrymple had at that 
 time _ formed any complete theory in regard to 
 malaria ; but his naturally lonely and concentrated
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 21 
 
 intellect had contemptuously discarded all ex 
 planations of malarious phenomena, and, com 
 municating his own ideas to no one, until he 
 should be in possession of proofs for his opinions, 
 he had in reality got hold of the beginning of 
 the truth about germs which has since then revo 
 lutionized medicine. 
 
 The only object of this short digression has been 
 to show that Angus Dalrymple was not a careless 
 idler and tourist in Italy, only half responsible 
 for what he did, and not at all for what he 
 thought. On the contrary, he was a man of very 
 unusual gifts, of superior education, and of rare 
 enterprise ; a strong, silent, thoughtful man, about 
 eight-and-twenty years of age, and just beginning 
 to feel his power as something greater than he 
 had suspected, when he came to spend the autumn 
 months in Subiaco, and hired Sora Nanna's guest 
 room, with a little room leading off it, which he 
 kept locked, and in which he had a table, a chair, 
 a microscope, some books, a few chemicals and 
 some simple apparatus. 
 
 His presence had at first roused certain jealous 
 misgivings in the heart of the town physician, Sor 
 Tommaso Taddei, commonly spoken of simply as 
 'the Doctor,' because there was no other. But 
 Dalrymple was not without tact and knowledge 
 of human nature. He explained that he came as 
 a foreigner to learn from native physicians how
 
 22 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 malarious fevers were treated in Italy; and he 
 listened with patient intelligence to Sor Tomma- 
 so's antiquated theories, and silently watched his 
 still more antiquated practice. And Sor Tommaso, 
 like all people who think that they know a vast 
 deal, highly approved of Dalrymple's submissive 
 silence, and said that the young man was a 
 marvel of modesty, and that if he could stay 
 about ten years in Subiaco and learn something 
 from Sor Tommaso himself, he might really some 
 day be a fairly good doctor, which were extraor 
 dinarily liberal admissions on the part of the 
 old practitioner, and contributed largely towards 
 reassuring Stefanone concerning his lodger's 
 character. 
 
 For Stefanone and his wife had their doubts and 
 suspicions. Of course they knew that all foreigners 
 except Frenchmen and Austrians were Protestants, 
 and ate meat on fast days, and were under the most 
 especial protection of the devil, who fattened them 
 in this world that they might burn the better in the 
 next. But Stefanone had never seen the real for 
 eigner at close quarters, and had not conceived it pos 
 sible that any living human being could devour so 
 much half-cooked flesh in a day as Dalrymple de 
 sired for his daily portion, paid for, and consumed. 
 Moreover, there was no man in Subiaco who could 
 and did swallow such portentous draughts of the 
 strong mountain wine, without suffering any ap-
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 23 
 
 parent effects from his potations. Furthermore, 
 also, Dalrymple did strange things by day and 
 night in the small laboratory he had arranged 
 next to his bedroom, and unholy and evil smells 
 issued at times through the cracks of the door, and 
 penetrated from the bedroom to the stairs outside, 
 and were distinctly perceptible all over the house. 
 Therefore Stefanone maintained for a long time 
 that his lodger was in league with the powers of 
 darkness, and that it was not safe to keep him 
 in the house, though he paid his bill so very 
 regularly, every Saturday, and never quarrelled 
 about the price of his food and drink. On the 
 whole, however, Stefanone abstained from inter 
 fering, as he had at first been inclined to do, and 
 entering the laboratory, with the support of the 
 parish priest, a basin of holy water, and a loaded 
 gun all three of which he considered necessary 
 for an exorcism ; and little by little, Sor Tommaso, 
 the doctor, persuaded him that Dalrymple was a 
 worthy young man, deeply engaged in profound 
 studies, and should be respected rather than 
 exorcised. 
 
 "Of course," admitted the doctor, "he is a 
 Protestant. But then he has a passport. Let us 
 therefore let him alone." 
 
 The existence of the passport indispensable 
 in those days was a strong argument in the 
 eyes of the simple Stefanone. He could not con-
 
 24 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 ceive that a magician whose soul was sold to 
 the devil could possibly have a passport and be 
 under the protection of the law. So the matter 
 was settled.
 
 Maria Addolorata. Vol. I., p. 25.

 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SISTEK MARIA ADDOLORATA sat by the open door 
 of her cell, looking across the stone parapet of her 
 little balcony, and watching the changing richness 
 of the western sky, as the sun went down far out 
 of sight behind the mountains. Though the month 
 was October, the afternoon was warm ; it was very 
 still, and the air had been close in the choir during 
 the Benediction service, which was just over. She 
 leaned back in her chair, and her lips parted as 
 she breathed, with a perceptible desire for refresh 
 ment in the breath. She held a piece of needle 
 work in her heavy white hands; the needle had 
 been thrust through the linen, but the stitch had 
 remained unfinished, and one pointed finger pressed 
 the doubled edge against the other, lest the mate 
 rial should slip before she made up her mind to 
 draw the needle through. Deep in the garden 
 under the balcony the late flowers were taking 
 strangely vivid colours out of the bright sky above, 
 and some bits of broken glass, stuck in the mortar 
 on the top of the opposite wall as a protection 
 against thieving boys, glowed like a line of rough 
 
 rubies against the misty distance. Even the white 
 25
 
 26 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 walls of the bare cell and the coarse grey blanket 
 lying across the foot of the small bed drank in a 
 little of the colour, and looked less grey and less 
 grim. 
 
 From the eaves, high above the open door, the 
 swallows shot down into the golden light, striking 
 great circles and reflecting the red gold of the sky 
 from their breasts as they wheeled just beyond the 
 wall, with steady wings wide-stretched, up and 
 down ; and each one, turning at full speed, struck 
 upwards again and was out of sight in an instant, 
 above the lintel. The nun watched them, her 
 eyes trying to follow each of them in turn and to 
 recognize them separately as they flashed into 
 sight again and again. 
 
 Her lips were parted, and as she sat there she 
 began to sing very softly and quite unconsciously. 
 She could not have told what the song was. The 
 words were strange and oddly divided, and there 
 was a deadly sadness in a certain interval that 
 came back almost with every stave. But the voice 
 itself was beautiful beyond all comparison with 
 ordinary voices, full of deep and touching vibra 
 tions and far harmonics, though she sang so softly, 
 all to herself. Notes like hers haunt the ears 
 and sometimes the heart when she who sang 
 them has been long dead, and many would give 
 much to hear but a breath of them again. 
 
 It was hard for Maria Addolorata not to sing
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 27 
 
 sometimes, when she was all alone in her cell, 
 though it was so strictly forbidden. Singing is 
 a gift of expression, when it is a really natural 
 gift, as much as speech and gesture and the smile 
 on the lips, with the one difference that it is a 
 keener pleasure to him or her that sings than 
 gesture or speech can possibly be. Music, and 
 especially singing, are a physical as well as an 
 intellectual expression, a pleasure of the body as 
 well as a ' delectation ' of the soul. To sing nat 
 urally and spontaneously is most generally an 
 endowment of natures physically strong and rich 
 by the senses, independently of the mind, though 
 melody may sometimes be the audible translation 
 of a silent thought as well as the unconscious 
 speech of wordless passion. 
 
 And in Maria's song there was a strain of that 
 something unknown and fatal, which the nuns 
 sometimes saw in her face and which was in her 
 eyes now, as she sang ; for they no longer followed 
 the circling of the swallows, but grew fixed and 
 dark, with fiery reflexions from the sunset sky, 
 and the regular features grew white and straight 
 and square against the deepening shadows within 
 the narrow room. The deep voice trembled a 
 little, and the shoulders had a short, shivering 
 movement under the heavy folds of the dark veil, 
 as the sensation of a presence ran through her and 
 made her shudder. But the voice did not break,
 
 28 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 and she sang on, louder, now, than she realized, 
 the full notes swelling in her throat, and vibrating 
 between the narrow walls, and floating out through 
 the open door to join the flight of the swallows. 
 
 The door of the cell opened gently, but she did 
 not hear, and sang on, leaning back in her chair 
 and gazing still at the pink clouds above the 
 mountains. 
 
 'Death is my love, dark-eyed death " 
 
 she sang. 
 
 " Maria ! " 
 
 The abbess was standing in the doorway and 
 speaking to her, but she did not hear. 
 
 "His hands are sweetly cold and gentle 
 Flowers of leek, and firefly 
 Holy Saint John ! " 
 
 " Maria ! " cried the abbess, impatiently. " What 
 follies are you singing ? I could hear you in my 
 room ! " 
 
 Maria Addolorata started and rose from her 
 seat, still holding her needlework, and tiirning 
 half round towards her superior, with suddenly 
 downcast eyes. The elder lady came forward with 
 slow dignity and walked as far as the door of the 
 balcony, where she stood still for a moment, gazing 
 at the beautiful sky. She was not a stately woman, 
 for she was too short and stout, but she had that 
 calm air of assured superiority which takes the
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 29 
 
 place of stateliness, and which seems to belong 
 especially to those who occupy important posi 
 tions in the Church. Her large features, though 
 too heavy, were imposing in their excessive pallor, 
 while the broad, dark brown shadows all around 
 and beneath the large black eyes gave the face a 
 depth of expression which did not, perhaps, wholly 
 correspond with the original character. It was 
 a striking face, and considering the wide interval 
 between the ages of the abbess and her niece, and 
 the natural difference of colouring, there was a 
 strong family resemblance in the two women. 
 
 The abbess sat down upon the only chair, and 
 Maria remained standing before her, her sewing 
 in her hands. 
 
 " I have often told you that you must not sing 
 in your cell," said the abbess, in a coldly severe 
 tone. 
 
 Maria's shoulders shook her veil a little, but she 
 still looked at the floor. 
 
 " I cannot help it," she answered in a constrained 
 voice. "I did not know that I was singing " 
 
 "That is ridiculous! How can one sing, and 
 not know it? You are not deaf. At least, you 
 do not sing as though you were. I will not have 
 it. I could hear you as far away as my own room 
 a love-song, too ! " 
 
 "The love of death," suggested Maria. 
 
 "It makes no difference," answered the elder
 
 30 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 lady. " You disturb the peace of the sisters with 
 your singing. You know the rule, and you must 
 obey it, like the rest. If you must sing, then sing 
 in church." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Very well, that ought to be enough. Must 
 you sing all the time ? Suppose that the Cardinal 
 had been visiting me, as was quite possible, what 
 impression would he have had of our discipline ? " 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Cardinal has often heard me sing." 
 
 " You must not call him < Uncle Cardinal.' It is 
 like the common people who say ' Uncle Priest.' I 
 have told you that a hundred times at least. And 
 if the Cardinal has heard you singing, so much the 
 worse." 
 
 "He once told me that I had a good voice," 
 observed Maria, still standing before her aunt. 
 
 " A good voice is a gift of God and to be used 
 in church, but not in such a way as to attract 
 attention or admiration. The devil is everywhere, 
 my daughter, and makes use of our best gifts as a 
 means of temptation. The Cardinal certainly did 
 not hear you singing that witch's love-song which 
 I heard just now. He would have rebuked you as 
 I do." 
 
 "It was not a love-song. It is about death 
 and Saint John's eve." 
 
 " Well, then it is about witches. Do not argue 
 with me. There is a rule, and you must not 
 break it."
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 31 
 
 Maria Addolorata said nothing, but moved a 
 step and leaned against the door-post, looking out 
 into the evening light. The stout abbess sat mo 
 tionless in her straight chair, looking past her 
 niece at the distant hills. She had evidently said 
 all she meant to say about the singing, and it did 
 not occur to her to talk of anything else. A long 
 silence followed. Maria was not timid, but she 
 had been accustomed from her childhood to look 
 upon her aunt as an immensely superior person, 
 moving in a higher sphere, and five years spent in 
 the convent as novice and nun had rather increased 
 than diminished the feeling of awe which the abbess 
 inspired in the young girl. There was, indeed, no 
 other sister in the community who would have 
 dared to answer the abbess's rebuke at all, and 
 Maria's very humble protest really represented an 
 extraordinary degree of individuality and courage. 
 Conventual institutions can only exist on a basis of 
 absolute submission. 
 
 The abbess was neither harsh nor unkind, and 
 was certainly not a very terrifying figure, but she 
 possessed undeniable force of character, strength 
 ened by the inborn sense of hereditary right and 
 power, and her kindness was as imposing as her 
 displeasure was lofty and solemn. She had very 
 little sympathy for any weakness in others, but 
 she was always ready to dispense the mercy of 
 Heaven, vicariously, so to say, and with a certain
 
 32 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 royally suppressed surprise that Heaven should be 
 merciful. On the whole, considering the circum 
 stances, she admitted that Maria Addolorata had 
 accepted the veil with sufficient outward grace, 
 though without any vocation, and she took it for 
 granted that with such opportunities the girl must 
 slowly develop into an abbess not unlike her prede 
 cessors. She prayed regularly, of course, and with 
 especial intention, for her niece, as for the welfare 
 of the order, and assumed as an unquestionable 
 result that her prayers were answered with perfect 
 regularity, since her own conscience did not re 
 proach her with negligence of her young relative's 
 spiritual education. 
 
 To the abbess, religion, the order and its duties, 
 presented themselves as a vast machine controlled 
 for the glory of God by the Pope. She and her 
 nuns were parts of the great engine which must 
 work with perfect regularity in order that God 
 might be glorified. Her mind was naturally re 
 ligious, but was at the same time essentially of the 
 material order. There is a material imagination, 
 and there is a spiritual imagination. There are 
 very good and devout men and women who take the 
 world, present and to come, quite literally, as a 
 mere fulfilment of their own limitations ; who look 
 upon what they know as being all that need be 
 known, and upon what they believe of God and 
 Heaven as the mechanical consequence of what
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 33 
 
 they know rather than as the cause and goal, re 
 spectively, of existence and action; to whom the 
 letter of the law is the arbitrary expression of a 
 despotic power, which, somehow, must be looked 
 upon as merciful; who answer all questions con 
 cerning God's logic with the tremendous assertion 
 of God's will ; whose God is a magnified man, and 
 whose devil is a malignant animal, second only to 
 God in understanding, while extreme from God 
 in disposition. There are good men and women 
 who, to use a natural but not flippant simile, take 
 it for granted that the soul is cast into the troubled 
 waters of life without the power to swim, or even 
 the possibility of learning to float, dependent upon 
 the bare chance that some one may throw it the 
 life-buoy of ritual religion as its only conceivable 
 means of salvation. And the opponents of each 
 particular form of faith invariably take just such 
 good men and women, with all their limitations, as 
 the only true exponents of that especial creed, 
 which they then proceed to tear in pieces with all 
 the ease such an undue advantage of false premise 
 gives them. None of them have thought of intel 
 lectual mercy as being, perhaps, an integral part of 
 Christian charity. Faith they have in abundance, 
 and hope also not a little ; but charity, though it 
 be for men's earthly ills and, theoretically, if not 
 always practically, for men's spiritual shortcom 
 ings, is rigidly forbidden for the errors of men's 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 minds. Why ? No thinking man can help asking 
 the little question which grows great in the unan- 
 swering silence that follows it. 
 
 All this is not intended as an apology for what 
 the young nun, Maria Addolorata, afterwards did, 
 though much of it is necessary in explanation of 
 her deeds, which, however they may be regarded, 
 brought upon her and others their inevitable logical 
 consequences. Still less is it meant, in any sense, 
 as an attack upon the conventual system of the clois 
 tered orders, which system was itself a consequence 
 of spiritual, intellectual and political history, and 
 has a prime right to be judged upon the evidence of 
 its causes, and not by the shortcomings of its results 
 in changed times. What has been said merely 
 makes clear the fact that the characters, minds, 
 and dispositions of Maria Addolorata and of her 
 aunt, the abbess, were wholly unsuited to one an 
 other. And this one fact became a source of life 
 and death, of happiness and misery, of comedy and 
 tragedy, to many individuals, even to the pres 
 ent day. 
 
 The nun remained motionless, pressing her cheek 
 against the door-post and looking out. Her aunt 
 had not quite shut the door by which she had 
 entered, and a cool stream of air blew outward from 
 the corridor and through the cell, bringing with it 
 that peculiar odour which belongs to all large and 
 old buildings inhabited by religious communities.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 35 
 
 It is made up of the cold exhalations from stone 
 walls and paved floors in which there is always 
 some dampness, of the acrid smell of the heavy, 
 leathern, wadded curtains which shut off the main 
 drafts of air, as the swinging doors do in a mine, 
 of a faint but perceptible suggestion of incense 
 which penetrates the whole building from the 
 church or the chapel, and, not least, of the fumes 
 from the cookery of the great quantities of vegeta 
 bles which are the staple food of the brethren or 
 the sisters. It is as imperceptible to the monks and 
 nuns themselves as the smell of tobacco to the 
 smoker. 
 
 It had been very close in the little cell, and 
 Maria was glad of the coolness that came in 
 through the open door. Her eyes were fixed on 
 the sky with a longing look. Again the words of 
 her song rose to her lips, but she checked them, 
 remembering her aunt's presence, and with the 
 eifort to be silent came the strong wish to be free, 
 to be over there upon those purple hills at evening, 
 to look beyond and watch the sun sinking into the 
 distant sea, to breathe her fill of the mountain air, 
 to run along the crests of the hills till she should 
 be tired, to sleep under the open sky, to see, in 
 dreams, to-morrow's sun rising through the trees, 
 to be waked by the song of birds and to find that 
 the dream was true. 
 
 Instead of that, and instead of all it meant to
 
 36 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 her, there was to be the silent evening meal, the 
 close, lighted chapel, the wearily nasal chant of 
 the sisters, her lonely cell, with its close dark 
 ness, the unrefreshing sleep, broken by the bell 
 calling her to another office in the chapel; then, 
 at last, the dawn, and the day that would seem as 
 much a prisoner as herself within the convent 
 walls, and the praying and nasal chanting, and 
 the counting of sheets and pillow-cases, and doing 
 a little sewing, and singing to herself, perhaps, 
 and then the being reproved for it the whole 
 varied by meals of coarse food, and periodical 
 stations in her seat in the choir. The day ! The 
 very sun seemed imprisoned in his corner of the 
 garden wall, dragging slowly at his chain, in a 
 short half-circle, from morning till evening, like 
 a watch-dog tied up in a yard beside his kennel. 
 The night was better. Sometimes she could see 
 the moon-rays through the cracks of the balcony 
 door, as she lay in her bed. She could see them 
 against the darkness, and the ends of them were 
 straight white lines and round white spots on the 
 floor and on the walls. Her thoughts played in 
 them, and her maiden fancies caught them and 
 followed them lightly out into the white night and 
 far away to the third world, which is dreamland. 
 And in her dreams she sang to the midnight stars, 
 and clasped her bare arms round the moon's white 
 throat, kissing the moon-lady's pale and passionate
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 37 
 
 cheek, till she lost herself in the mysterious eyes, 
 and found herself once more, bathed in cool star- 
 showers, the queen of a tender dream. 
 
 There sat the abbess, in the only chair, stolid, 
 righteous, imposing. The incarnation and repre 
 sentative of the ninety and nine who need no 
 forgiveness, exasperatingly and mathematically 
 virtuous as a dogma, a woman against whom no 
 sort of reproach could be brought, and at the mere 
 sight of whom false witnesses would shrivel up 
 and die, like jelly-fish in the sun. She not only 
 approved of ^the convent life, but she liked it. 
 She was at liberty to do a thousand things which 
 were not permitted to the nuns, but she had not 
 the slightest inclination to do any of them, any 
 more than she was inclined to admit that any of 
 them could possibly be unhappy if they would 
 only pray, sing, sleep, and eat boiled cabbage at 
 the appointed hours. What had she in common 
 with Maria Addolorata, except that she was born 
 a princess and a Braccio ? 
 
 Of what use was it to be a princess by birth, 
 like a dozen or more of the sisters, or even a noble, 
 like all the others ? Of what use or advantage 
 could anything be, where liberty was not ? An 
 even plainer and more desperate question rose in 
 the young nun's heart, as she leaned her cheek 
 against the door-post, still warm with the afternoon 
 sun. Of what use was life, if it was to be lived
 
 38 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 in the tomb with the accompaniment of a life-long 
 funeral service ? Why should not God be as well 
 pleased with suicide as with self-burial ? Why 
 should not death all at once, by the sudden dash 
 of cleanly steel, be as noble and acceptable a 
 sacrifice as death by sordid degrees of orderly 
 suffering, systematic starvation, and rigidly regu 
 lated misery ? Was not life, life and blood, 
 blood whether drawn by drops, or shed from a 
 quick wound in the splendid redness of one heroic 
 instant ? Surely it would be as grand a thing, if 
 a mere sacrifice were the object, to be laid down 
 stark dead, with the death-thrust in the heart, at 
 the foot of the altar, in all her radiant youth and 
 full young beauty, untempted and unsullied, as to 
 fast and pray through forty querulous years of 
 misery in prison. 
 
 But then, there was the virtue of patience. 
 Therein, doubtless, lay the difference. It was not 
 the death alone that was to please God, but the 
 long manner of it, the summed-up account of suf 
 fering, the interest paid on the capital of life after 
 it was invested in death. God was to be pleased 
 with items, and the sum of them. Item, a sleepless 
 night. Item, a bad cold, caught by kneeling on 
 the damp stones. Item, a dish of sweets refused 
 on a feast-day. Item, the resolution not to laugh 
 when a fly settled on the abbess's nose. Item, the 
 resolution not to wish that her hair had never been
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 39 
 
 cut off. Item, being stifled in summer and frozen 
 in winter, in her cell. Item, appreciating that it 
 was the best cell, and that she was better off than 
 the other sisters. 
 
 Bepeat the items for half a century, sum them 
 up, and offer them to God as a meet and fitting 
 sacrifice the destruction, by fine degrees of petty 
 suffering, of one woman's whole life, almost from 
 the beginning, and quite to the end, with the total 
 annihilation of all its human possibilities, of love, 
 of motherhood, of reasonable enjoyment and legiti 
 mate happiness. That was the formula for salva 
 tion which Maria Addolorata had received with 
 the veil. 
 
 And not only had she received it. It had been 
 thrust upon her, because she chanced to be the 
 only available daughter of the ancient house of 
 Braccio, to fill the hereditary seat beneath the 
 wooden canopy, as abbess of the Subiaco Car 
 melites. If there had been another sister, less 
 fair, more religiously disposed, that sister would 
 have been chosen in Maria's stead. But there was 
 no other; and there must be a young Braccio nun, 
 to take the place of the elder one, when the latter 
 should have filled her account to overflowing with 
 little items to be paid for with the gold of certain, 
 salvation. 
 
 That a sinful woman, full of sorrows, and weary 
 of the world, might silently bow her head under
 
 40 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 the nun's veil, and wear out with prayerful auster 
 ity the deep-cut letters of her sin's story, that, 
 at least, was a thing Maria could understand. 
 There were faces amongst the sisters that haunted 
 her in her solitude, lips that could have told much, 
 but which said only 'Miserere'; eyes that had 
 looked on love, and that fixed themselves now 
 only on the Cross ; cheeks blanched with grief and 
 hollowed as the marble of an ancient fountain by 
 often flowing tears ; hearts that had given all, 
 and had been beaten and bruised and rejected. 
 The convent was for them ; the life was a life for 
 them ; for them there was no freedom beyond 
 these walls, in the living world, nor anywhere on 
 this side of death. They had done right in com 
 ing, and they did right in staying; they were 
 reasonable when they prayed that they might have 
 time, before they died, to be sorry for their sins 
 and to touch again the hem of the garment of 
 innocence. 
 
 But even they, if they were told that it would 
 be right, would they not rather shorten their time 
 to a day, even to one instant, of aggregated pain, 
 and offer up their sacrifice all at once ? And why 
 should it not be right ? Did God delight in pain 
 and suffering for its own sake ? The passionate 
 girl's heart revolted angrily against a Being that 
 could enjoy the sufferings of helpless creatures. 
 
 But then, there was that virtue of patience
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 41 
 
 again, which was beyond her comprehension. At 
 last she spoke, her face still to the sunset. 
 
 "What difference can it make to God how we 
 die ? " she asked, scarcely conscious that she was 
 speaking. 
 
 The abbess must have started a little, for the 
 chair creaked suddenly, several seconds before she 
 answered. Her face did not relax, however, nor 
 were her hands unclasped from one another as 
 they lay folded on her knees. 
 
 "That is a foolish question, my daughter," she 
 said at last. " Do you think that God was not 
 pleased by the sufferings of the holy martyrs, and 
 did not reward them for what they bore ? " 
 
 "No, I did not mean that," answered Maria, 
 quickly. " But why should we not all be martyrs ? 
 It would be much quicker." 
 
 " Heaven preserve us ! " exclaimed the abbess. 
 " "What are you thinking of, child ? " 
 
 ".It would be so much quicker," repeated Maria. 
 " What are we here for ? To sacrifice our lives to 
 God. We wish to make this sacrifice, and God 
 promises to accept it. Why would it be less com 
 plete if we were led to the altar as soon as we 
 have finished our novitiate and quickly killed ? It 
 would be the same, and it would be much quicker. 
 What difference can it make how we die, since we 
 are to die in the end, without accomplishing any 
 thing except dying ? "
 
 42 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 By this time the abbess's pale hands were un 
 clasped, and one of them pressed each knee, as 
 she leaned far forward in her seat, with an expres 
 sion of surprise and horror, her dark lips parted 
 and all the lines of her colourless face drawn 
 down. 
 
 "Are you mad, Maria?" she asked in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " Mad ? No. Why should you think me mad ? " 
 The nun turned and looked down at her aunt. 
 " After all, it is the great question. Our lives are 
 but a preparation for death. Why need the prepa 
 ration be so long ? Why should the death be so 
 slow ? Why should it be right to kill ourselves 
 for the glory of God by degrees, and wrong to do 
 it all at once, if one has the courage ? I think it 
 is a very reasonable question." 
 
 " Indeed, you are beside yourself ! The dervil 
 suggests such things to you and blinds you to the 
 truth, my child. Penance and prayer, prayer and 
 penance by the grace of Heaven it will pass." 
 
 " Penance and prayer ! " exclaimed Maria, sadly. 
 " That is it a slow death, but a sure one ! " 
 
 " I am more than sixty years old," replied the 
 abbess. " I have done penance and prayed prayers 
 all my life, and you see I am well. I am stout." 
 
 " For charity's sake, do not say so ! " cried Maria, 
 making the sign of the horns with her fingers, to 
 ward off the evil eye. " You will certainly fall ill."
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 43 
 
 " Our lives are of God. It is our own eyes that 
 are evil. You must not make horns with your 
 fingers. It is a heathen superstition, as I have 
 often told you. But many of you do it. Maria, I 
 wish to speak to you seriously." 
 
 " Speak, mother," answered the young nun, the 
 strong habit of submission returning instantly 
 with the other's grave tone. 
 
 " These thoughts of yours are very wicked. 
 We are placed in the world, and we must continue 
 to live in it, as long as God wills that we should. 
 When God is pleased to deliver us, He will take us 
 in good time. You and I and the sisters should be 
 thankful that during our brief stay on earth this 
 sanctuary has fallen to our lot, and this possibility 
 of a holy life. We must take every advantage of 
 it, thanking Heaven if our stay be long enough for 
 us to repent of our sins and obtain indulgence for 
 our venial shortcomings. It is wicked to desire to 
 shorten our lives. It is wicked to desire anything 
 which is not the will of God. We are here to live, 
 to watch and to pray not to complain and to rebel." 
 
 The abbess was stout, as she herself admitted, 
 and between her sudden surprise at her niece's 
 wholly unorthodox, not to say blasphemous, sug 
 gestion of suicide as a means of grace, and her own 
 attempt at eloquence, she grew rapidly warm, in 
 spite of the comparatively cool draft which was 
 passing out from the interior of the building. She
 
 44 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 caught the end of her loose over-sleeve and fanned 
 herself slowly when she had finished speaking. 
 
 But Maria Addolorata did not consider that she 
 was answered. There in the cell of a Carmelite 
 convent, in the heart of a young girl who had per 
 haps never heard of Shakespeare and who cer 
 tainly knew nothing of Hamlet, the question of 
 all questions found itself, and she found for it such 
 speech as she could command. It broke out pas 
 sionately and impatiently. 
 
 " What are we ? And why are we what we are ? 
 Yes, mother I know that you are good, and that 
 all you say is true. But it is not all. There is all 
 the world beyond it. To live, or not to live but 
 you know that this is not living ! It is not meant 
 to be living, as the people outside understand what 
 living means. What does it all signify but death, 
 when we take the veil, and lie before the altar, and 
 are covered with a funeral pall ? It means dying 
 then why not altogether dying ? Has not God 
 angels, in thousands, to praise Him and worship 
 Him, and pray for sinners on earth? And they 
 sing and pray gladly, because they are blessed and 
 do not suffer, as we do. Why should God want us, 
 poor little nuns, to live half dead, and to praise Him 
 with voices that crack with the cold in winter, and 
 to kneel till we faint with the heat in summer, 
 and to wear out our bodies with fasting and prayer 
 and penance, till it is all we can do to crawl to our
 
 CAS A B BAG CIO. 45 
 
 places in the choir ? Not I I am young and 
 strong still nor you, perhaps, for you are strong 
 still, though you are not young. But many of the 
 sisters yes, they are the best ones, I know 
 they are killing themselves by inches before our 
 eyes. You know it I know it they know it 
 themselves. Why should they not find some 
 shorter way of death for God's glory ? Or if not, 
 why should they not live happily, since many of 
 them could ? Why should God, who made us, wish 
 us to destroy ourselves or if He does, then why 
 may we not do it in our own way ? Ah it would 
 be so short a knife-thrust, and then the great 
 peace forever ! " 
 
 The abbess had risen and was standing before 
 Maria, one hand resting on the back of the rush- 
 bottomed chair. 
 
 " Blasphemy ! " she cried, finding breath at last. 
 " It is blasphemy, or madness, or both ! It is the 
 evil one's own doing ! Forgive her, good God ! 
 She does not know what she is saying ! Almighty 
 and most merciful God, forgive her ! " 
 
 For a moment Maria Addolorata was silent, 
 realizing how far she had forgotten herself, and 
 startled by the abbess's terrified eyes and excited 
 tone. But she was naturally a far more dar 
 ing woman than she herself knew. Though her 
 face was pale, her lips smiled at her good aunt's 
 fright.
 
 46 CASA BBACC10. 
 
 "But that is not an answer just to cry ' blas 
 phemy ! ' " she said. " The question is clear " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence. The abbess was 
 really beside herself with religious terror. With 
 almost violent hands she dragged and thrust her 
 niece down till Maria fell upon her knees. 
 
 " Fray, child ! Pray, before it is too late ! " she 
 cried. " Pray on your knees that this possession 
 may pass, before your soul is lost forever ! " 
 
 She herself knelt beside the girl upon the 
 stones, still clasping her and pressing her down. 
 And she prayed aloud, long, fervently, almost 
 wildly, appealing to God for protection against a 
 bodily tempting devil, who by his will, and with 
 evil strength, was luring and driving a human soul 
 to utter damnation.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "!T is well," said Stefanone. "The world is 
 come to an end. I will not say anything more." 
 
 He finished his tumbler of wine, leaned back on 
 the wooden bench against the brown wall, played 
 with the broad silver buttons of his dark blue 
 jacket, and stared hard at Sor Tommaso, the 
 doctor, who sat opposite to him. The doctor re 
 turned his glance rather unsteadily and betook 
 himself to his snuffbox. It was of worn black 
 ebony, adorned in the middle of the lid with a 
 small view of Saint Peter's and the colonnades in 
 mosaic, with a very blue sky. From long use, each 
 tiny fragment of the mosaic was surrounded by a 
 minute black line, which indeed lent some tone 
 to the intensely clear atmosphere of the little 
 picture, but gave the architecture represented 
 therein a dirty and neglected appearance. The 
 snuff itself, however, was of the superior quality 
 known as Sicilian in those days, and was of a 
 beautiful light brown colour. 
 
 " And why ? " asked the doctor very slowly, be 
 tween the operations of pinching, stuffing, snuffing, 
 and dusting. " Why is the world come to au end ? " 
 47
 
 48 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 Stefanone's eyes grew sullen, with a sort of dull 
 glare in their unwinking gaze. He looked dan 
 gerous just then, but the doctor did not seem to 
 be in the least afraid of him. 
 
 " You, who have made it end, should know why," 
 answered the peasant:, after a short pause. 
 
 Stefanone was a niun of the Koman type, of 
 medium height, thick set and naturally melan 
 cholic, with thin, straight lips that were clean 
 shaven, straight black hair, a small but aggres 
 sively aquiline nose and heavy hands, hairy on 
 the backs of the fingers, between the knuckles. 
 His wife, Sora Nanna, said that he had a fist like 
 a paving-stone. He also looked as though he might 
 have the constitution of a mule. He was at that 
 time about five-and-thirty years of age, and there 
 were a few strong lines in his face, notably those 
 curved ones drawn from the beginning of the 
 nostrils to the corners of the mouth, which are 
 said to denote an uncertain temper. 
 
 He wore the dress of the richer peasants of that 
 day, a coarse but spotless white shirt, very open 
 at the throat, a jacket and waistcoat of stout dark 
 blue cloth, with large and smooth silver buttons, 
 knee-breeches, white stockings, and heavy low shoes 
 with steel buckles. He combined the occupations 
 of farmer, wine-seller, and carrier. When he was 
 on the road between Subiaco and Eome, Gigetto, 
 already mentioned, was supposed to represent him.
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 49 
 
 It was understood that Gigetto was to marry 
 Annetta if he could be prevailed upon to do so, 
 for he was the younger son of a peasant family 
 which held its head even higher than Stefanone, 
 and the young man as well as his people looked 
 upon Annetta's wild ways with disapproval, though 
 her fortune, as the only child of Stefanone and 
 Sora Nanna, was a very strong attraction. In the 
 meantime, Gigetto acted as though he were the 
 older man's partner in the wine-shop, and as he 
 was a particularly honest, but also a particularly 
 idle, young man with a taste for singing and playing 
 on the guitar, the position suited him admirably. 
 
 As for Sor Tommaso, with whom Stefanone 
 seemed inclined to quarrel on this particular even 
 ing, he was a highly respectable personage in a 
 narrow-shouldered, high-collared black coat with 
 broad skirts, and a snuff-coloured waistcoat. He 
 wore a stock which was decidedly shabby, but 
 decent, and the thin cuffs of his shirt were turned 
 back over the tight sleeves of his coat, in the old 
 fashion. He also wore amazingly tight black 
 trousers, strapped closely over his well-blacked 
 boots. To tell the truth, these nether garments, 
 though of great natural resistance, had lived so 
 long at a high tension, so to say, that they were 
 no longer equally tight at all points, and there 
 were, undoubtedly, certain perceptible spots on 
 them ; but, on the whole, the general effect of 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 60 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 the doctor's appearance was fashionable, in the 
 fashion of several years earlier and judged by the 
 standard of Subiaco. He wore his hair rather 
 long, in a handsome iron-grey confusion, his face 
 was close-shaven, and, though he was thin, his 
 complexion was somewhat apoplectic. 
 
 Having duly and solemnly finished the operation 
 of taking snuff, the doctor looked at the peasant. 
 
 " I do not wish to have said anything," he ob 
 served, by way of a general retractation. " These 
 are probably follies." 
 
 " And for not having meant to say anything, you 
 have planted this knife in my heart!" retorted 
 Stefanone, the veins swelling at his temples. 
 " Thank you. I wish to die, if I forget it. You 
 tell me that this daughter of mine is making love 
 with the Englishman. And then you say that you 
 do not wish to have said anything ! May he die, 
 the Englishman, he, and whoever made him, with 
 the whole family ! An evil death on him and all 
 his house!" 
 
 " So long as you do not make me die, too ! " ex 
 claimed Sor Tommaso, with rather a pitying smile. 
 
 "Eh! To die it is soon said! And yet, 
 people do die. You, who are a doctor, should 
 know that. And you do not wish to have said 
 anything ! Bravo, doctor ! Words are words. And 
 yet they can sting. And after a thousand years, 
 they still sting. You what can you understand ?
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 51 
 
 Are you perhaps a father ? You have not even 
 a wife. Oh, blessed be God! You do not even 
 know what you are saying. You know nothing. 
 You think, perhaps, because you are a doctor, that 
 you know more than I do. I will tell you that you 
 are an ignorant ! " 
 
 " Oh, beautiful ! " cried the doctor, angrily, stung 
 by what is still almost a mortal insult. " You 
 to ine ignorant ! Oh, beautiful, most beautiful, 
 this ! From a peasant to a man of science ! Per 
 haps you too have a diploma from the University 
 of the Sapienza : 
 
 " If I had, I should wrap half a pound of sliced 
 ham fat ham, you know in it, for the first 
 customer. What should I do with your diplomas ! 
 I ask you, what do you know ? Do you know at 
 all what a daughter is ? Blood of my blood, heart 
 of my heart, hand of this hand. But I am a 
 peasant, and you are a doctor. Therefore, I know 
 nothing." 
 
 " And meanwhile you give me ' ignorant ' in my 
 face ! " retorted Sor Tommaso. 
 
 "Yes and I repeat it!" cried Stefanone, lean 
 ing forwards, his clenched hand on the table. " I 
 say it twice, three times ignorant, ignorant, igno 
 rant ! Have you understood ? " 
 
 " Say it louder ! In that way every one can hear 
 you ! Beast of a sheep-grazer ! " 
 
 " And you crow-feeder ! Furnisher of grave-
 
 52 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 diggers And then ignorant! Oh this time 
 I have said it clearly!" 
 
 " And it seems to me that it is enough ! " roared 
 the doctor, across the table. " Ciociaro ! Take 
 that ! " 
 
 " Ciociaro ? I ? Oh, your soul ! If I get hold 
 of you with my hands ! " 
 
 A ' ciociaro ' is a hill-man who wears ' cioce/ or 
 rags, bound upon his feet with leathern sandals and 
 thongs. He is generally a shepherd, and is held 
 in contempt by the more respectable people of the 
 larger mountain towns. To call a man a ' ciociaro ' 
 is a bitter insult. 
 
 Stefanone in his anger had half risen from his 
 seat. But the wooden bench on which he had been 
 sitting was close to the wall behind him, and the 
 heavy oak table was pushed up within a few inches 
 of his chest, so that his movements were consider 
 ably hampered as he stretched out his hands rather 
 wildly towards his adversary. The latter, who pos 
 sessed more moral than physical courage, moved 
 his chair back and prepared to make his escape, 
 if Stefanone showed signs of coming round the 
 table. 
 
 At that moment a tall figure darkened the door 
 that opened upon the street, and a quiet, dry voice 
 spoke with a strong foreign accent. It was Angus 
 Dalrymple, returning from a botanizing expedition 
 in the hills, after being absent all day.
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 53 
 
 " That is a very uncomfortable way of fighting," 
 he observed, as he stood still in the doorway. 
 " You cannot hit a man across a table broader than 
 your arm is long, Signor Stefano." 
 
 The effect of his words was instantaneous. Ste- 
 fanone fell back into his seat. The doctor's anxious 
 and excited expression resolved itself instantly into 
 a polite smile. 
 
 " We were only playing," he said suavely. " A 
 little discussion a mere jest. Our friend Stefa- 
 none was explaining something." 
 
 " If the table had been narrower, he would have 
 explained you away altogether," observed Dalrym- 
 ple, coming forward. 
 
 He laid a tin box which he had with him upon 
 the table, and shook hands with Sor Tommaso. 
 Then he slipped behind the table and sat down 
 close to his host, as a precautionary measure in 
 case the play should be resumed. Stefauone would 
 have had a bad chance of being dangerous, if the 
 powerful Scotchman chose to hold him down. But 
 the peasant seemed to have become as suddenly 
 peaceful as the doctor. 
 
 " It was nothing," said Stefanone, quietly enough, 
 though his eyes were bloodshot and glanced about 
 the room in an unsettled way. 
 
 At that moment Annetta entered from a door 
 leading to the staircase. Her eyes were fixed on 
 Dalrymple's face as she came forward, carrying
 
 54 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 a polished brass lamp, with three burning wicks, 
 which she placed upon the table. Dalryniple looked 
 up at her, and seeing her expression of inquiry, 
 slowly nodded. With a laugh which drew her long 
 red-brown lips back from her short white teeth, the 
 girl produced a small flask and a glass, which she 
 had carried behind her and out of sight when she 
 came in. She set them before Dalryniple. 
 
 "I saw you coming," she said, and laughed again. 
 " And then it is always the same. Half a ' fogli- 
 etta ' of the old, just for the appetite." 
 
 Sor Tommaso glanced at Stefanoue in a meaning 
 way, but the girl's father affected not to see him. 
 Dalryinple nodded his thanks, poured a few drops 
 of wine into the glass and scattered them upon the 
 brick floor according to the ancient custom, both 
 for rinsing the glass and as a libation, and then 
 offered to fill the glasses of each of the two men, 
 who smiled, shook their heads, and covered their 
 tumblers with their right hands. At last Dalrym 
 ple helped himself, nodded politely to his com 
 panions, and slowly emptied the glass which held 
 almost all the contents of the little flask. The 
 'foglietta,' or 'leaflet' of wine, is said to have 
 been so called from the twisted and rolled vine 
 leaf which generally serves it for a stopper. A 
 whole ' f oglietta ' contained a scant pint. 
 
 "Will you eat now?" asked Annetta, still 
 smiling.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 55 
 
 "Presently," answered Dalrymple. "What is 
 there to eat ? I am hungry." 
 
 "It seems that you have to say so!" laughed 
 the girl. " It is a new thing. There is beefsteak 
 or mutton, if you wish to know. And ham a 
 fresh ham cut to-day. It is one of the Grape- 
 eater's, and it seems good. You remember, Sor 
 Tommaso, the speaking with respect to your 
 face the pig we called the Grape-eater last year? 
 Speaking with respect, he was a good pig. It is 
 one of his hams that we have cut. There is also 
 salad, and fresh bread, which you like. And wine, 
 I will not speak of it. Eh, he likes wine, the Eng 
 lishman! He conies in with a long, long face 
 and when he goes to bed, his face is wide, wide. 
 That is the wine. But then, it does nothing else 
 to him. It only changes his face. When I look 
 at him, I seem to see the moon waxing." 
 
 " You talk too much," said Stefanone. 
 
 "Never mind, papa! Words are not pennies. 
 The more one wastes, the more one has ! " 
 
 Dalrymple said nothing ; but he smiled as she 
 turned lightly with a toss of her small dark head 
 and left the room. 
 
 "Fine blood," observed the doctor, with a con 
 ciliatory glance at the girl's father. 
 
 " You will be wanted before long, Sor Tommaso," 
 said Dalrymple, gravely. " I hear that the abbess 
 is very ill."
 
 56 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 The doctor looked up with sudden interest, and 
 put on his professional expression. 
 
 "The abbess, you say? Dear me! She is not 
 young! What has she? Who told you, Sor 
 Angoscia ? " 
 
 Now, 'Sor Angoscia' signifies in English 'Sir 
 Anguish,' but the doctor in spite of really con 
 scientious efforts could not get nearer to the pro 
 nunciation of Angus. Nevertheless, with northern 
 persistency, Dalrymple corrected him for the hun 
 dredth time. The doctor's first attempt had 
 resulted in his calling the Scotchman 'Sor Lan- 
 gusta,' which means 'Sir Crayfish' and it must 
 be admitted that 'Anguish' was an improvement. 
 
 " Angus," said Dalrymple. " My name is Angus. 
 The abbess has caught a severe cold from sitting 
 in a draught when she was overheated. It has 
 immediately settled on her lungs, and you may be 
 sent for at any moment. I passed by the back 
 of the convent on my way down, and the gardener 
 was just coming out of the postern. He told me." 
 
 " Dear me, dear me ! " exclaimed Sor Tommaso, 
 shaking his head. "Cold bronchitis, pleurisy, 
 pneumonia it is soon done ! One would be enough ! 
 Those nuns, what do they eat ? A little grass, a 
 little boiled paste, a little broth of meat on Sundays. 
 What strength should they have ? And then pray, 
 pray, sing, sing! It needs a chest! Poor lungs! 
 I will go to my home and get ready blisters
 
 CAS A Bit AC CIO. 57 
 
 mustard a lancet they will not allow a barber 
 in the convent to bleed them. Well I make my 
 self the barber ! What a life, what a life ! If you 
 wish to die young, be a doctor at Subiaco, Sor 
 Angoscia. Good night, dear friend. Good night, 
 Stefanone. I wish not to have said anything 
 you know that little affair. Let us speak no 
 more about it. I am more beast than you, because 
 I said anything. Good night." 
 
 Sor Tommaso got his stick from a dark corner, 
 pressed his broad catskin hat upon his head, and 
 took his respectability away on its tightly encased 
 black legs. 
 
 "And may the devil go with you," said Stefa 
 none, under his breath, as the doctor disappeared. 
 
 "Why?" inquired Dalryrnple, who had caught 
 the words. 
 
 " I said nothing," answered the peasant, thought 
 fully trimming one wick of the lamp with the bent 
 brass wire which, with the snuffers, hung by a 
 chain from the ring by which the lamp was carried. 
 
 "I thought you spoke," said the Scotchman. 
 " Well the abbess is very ill, and Sor Toramaso 
 has a job." 
 
 "May he do it well! So that it need not be 
 begun again." 
 
 "What do you mean?" Dalrymple slowly 
 sipped the remains of his little measure of wine. 
 
 " Those nuns ! " exclaimed Stefanone, instead of
 
 58 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 answering the question. " What are they here to 
 do, in this world ? Better make saints of them 
 and good night ! There would be one misery less. 
 Do you know what they do ? They make wine. 
 Good! But they do not drink it. They sell it 
 for a farthing less by the f oglietta than other people. 
 The devil take them and their wine ! " 
 
 Dalrymple glanced at the angry peasant with 
 some amusement, but did not make any answer. 
 
 "Eh, Signore!" cried Stefanone. "You who 
 are a foreigner and a Protestant, can you not say 
 something, since it would be no sin for you ? " 
 
 "I was thinking of something to say, Signor 
 Stefanone. But as for that, who does the business 
 for the convent? They cannot do it themselves, 
 I suppose. Who determines the price of their 
 wine for them ? Or the price of their corn ? " 
 
 " They are not so stupid as you think. Oh, no ! 
 They are not stupid, the nuns. They know the 
 price of this, and the cost of that, just as well as 
 you and I do. But Gigetto's father, Sor Agostino, 
 is their steward, if that is what you wish to 
 know. And his father was before him, and Gigetto 
 will be after him, with his pumpkin-head. And 
 the rest is sung by the organ, as we say when 
 mass is over. For you know about Gigetto and 
 Annetta." 
 
 "Yes. And as you cannot quarrel with Sor 
 Agostino on that account, I do not see but that
 
 CAS A B BAG CIO. 59 
 
 you will either have to bear it, or sell your wine 
 a farthing cheaper than that of the nuns." 
 
 " Eh that is soon said. A farthing cheaper 
 than theirs ! That means half a baiocco cheaper 
 than I sell it now. And the best is only five 
 baiocchi the foglietta, and the cheapest is two and 
 a half. Good bye profit a pleasant journey to 
 Stefanone. But it is those nuns. They are to 
 blame, and the devil will pay them." 
 
 "In that case you need not," observed Dalrym- 
 ple, rising. " I am going to wash my hands before 
 supper." 
 
 "At your pleasure, Signore," answered Stefanone, 
 politely. 
 
 As Dalrymple went out, Annetta passed him at 
 the door, bringing in plates and napkins, and 
 knives and forks. The girl glanced at his face as 
 he went by. 
 
 "Be quick, Signore," she said with a laugh. 
 " The beefsteak of mutton is grilling." 
 
 He nodded, and went up the dark stairs, his 
 heavy shoes sending back echoes as he trod. 
 Stefanone still sat at the table, turning the glass 
 wine measure upside down over his tumbler, to 
 let the last drops run out. He watched them as 
 they fell, one by one, without looking up at his 
 daughter, who began to arrange the plates for 
 Dalrymple's meal. 
 
 "I will teach you to make love with the English-
 
 60 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 man," lie said slowly, still watching the dropping 
 wine. 
 
 " Me ! " cried Annetta, with real or feigned 
 astonishment, and she tossed a knife and fork 
 angrily into a plate, with a loud, clattering noise. 
 
 " I am speaking with you," answered her father, 
 without raising his eyes. " Do you know ? You 
 will come to a bad end." 
 
 " Thank you ! " replied the girl, contemptuously. 
 " If you say so, it must be true ! Now, who has 
 told you that the Englishman is making love to 
 me ? An apoplexy on him, whoever he may be ! " 
 
 " Pretty words for a girl ! Sor Tommaso told 
 me. A little more, and I would have torn his 
 tongue out. Just then, the Englishman came in. 
 Sor Tommaso got off easily." 
 
 The girl's tone changed very much when she 
 spoke again, and there was a dull and angry light 
 in her eyes. Her long lips were still parted, and 
 showed her gleaming teeth, but the smile was 
 altogether gone. 
 
 "Yes. Too easily," she said, almost in a whis 
 per, and there was a low hiss in the words. 
 
 "In the meanwhile, it is true what he said," 
 continued Stefanone. "You make eyes at him. 
 You wait for him and watch for him when he 
 comes back from the mountains " 
 
 " Well ? Is it not my place to serve him with 
 his supper ? If you are not satisfied, hire a ser-
 
 CAS A BBACC1O. 61 
 
 vant to wait on him. You are rich. What do I 
 care for the Englishman? Perhaps it is a pleas 
 ure to roast my face over the charcoal, cooking 
 his meat for him. As for Sor Tommaso " 
 
 She stopped short in her speech. Her father 
 knew what the tone meant, and looked up for the 
 first time. 
 
 " 0-e ! " he exclaimed, as one suddenly aware of 
 a danger, and warning some one else. 
 
 "Nothing," answered Annetta, looking down and 
 arranging the knives and forks symmetrically on 
 the clean cloth she had laid. 
 
 "I might have killed him just now in hot blood, 
 when the Englishman came in," said Stefanone, 
 reflectively. " But now my blood has grown cold. 
 I shall do nothing to him." 
 
 " So much the better for him." She still spoke 
 in a low voice, as she turned away from the table. 
 
 " But I will kill you," said Stefanone, " if I see 
 you making eyes at the Englishman." 
 
 He rose, and taking up his hat, which lay beside 
 him, he edged his way out along the wooden bench, 
 moving cautiously lest he should shake the table 
 and upset the lamp or the bottles. Annetta had 
 turned again, at the threat he had uttered, and 
 stood still, waiting for him to get out into the 
 room, her hands on her hips, and her eyes on fire. 
 
 " You will kill me ? " she asked, just as he was 
 opposite to her. "Well kill me, then! Here
 
 62 CAS A B BAG CIO. 
 
 I am. What are you waiting for ? For the Eng 
 lishman to interfere? He is washing his hands. 
 He always takes a long time." 
 
 "Then it is true that you have fallen in love 
 with him ? " asked Stefanone, his anger returning. 
 
 "Him, or another. What does it matter to 
 you ? You remind me of the old woman who beat 
 her cat, and then cried when it ran away. If you 
 want me to stay at home, you had better find me 
 a husband." 
 
 "Do you want anything better than Gigetto? 
 Apoplexy ! But you have ideas ! " 
 
 " You are making a good business of it with 
 Gigetto, in truth ! " cried the girl, scornfully. "He 
 eats, he drinks, and then he sings. But he does 
 not marry. He will not even make love to me 
 not even with an eye. And then, because I love 
 the Englishman, who is a great lord, though he 
 says he is a doctor, I must die. Well, kill me ! " 
 She stared insolently at her father for a moment. 
 "Oh, well," she added scornfully, "if you have 
 not time now, it must be for to-morrow. I am 
 busy." 
 
 She turned on her heel with a disdainful fling 
 of her short, dark skirt. Stefanone was exas 
 perated, and his anger had returned. Before she 
 was out of reach, he struck her with his open 
 hand. Instead of striking her cheek, the blow fell 
 upon the back of her head and neck, and sent her
 
 GAB A BEACCIO. 63 
 
 stumbling forwards. She caught the back of a 
 chair, steadied herself, and turned again instantly, 
 at her full height, not deigning to raise her hand 
 to the place that hurt her. 
 
 "Coward!" she exclaimed. "But I will pay 
 you and Sor Tommaso for that blow." 
 
 "Whenever you like," answered her father 
 gruffly, but already sorry for what he had done. 
 
 He turned his back, and went out into the night. 
 It was now almost quite dark, and Annetta stood 
 still by the chair, listening to his retreating foot 
 steps. Then she slowly turned and gazed at the 
 flaring wicks of the lamp. With a gesture that 
 suggested the movement of a young animal, she 
 rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and 
 leisurely turned her head first to one side and then 
 to the other. Her brown skin was unusually pale, 
 but there was no moisture in her eyes as she stared 
 at the lamp. 
 
 " But I will pay you, Sor Tommaso," she said 
 thoughtfully and softly. 
 
 Then turning her eyes from the lamp at last, she 
 took up one of the knives from the table, looked at 
 it, felt the edge, and laid it down contemptuously. 
 In those days all the respectable peasants in the 
 Roman villages had solid silver forks and spoons, 
 which have long since gone to the melting-pot to 
 pay taxes. But they used the same blunt, pointless 
 knives with wooden handles, which they use to-day.
 
 64 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 Annetta started, as she heard Dairy m pie's tread 
 upon the stone steps of the staircase, but she re 
 covered herself instantly, gave a finishing touch 
 to the table, rubbed the back of her head quickly 
 once more, and met him with a smile. 
 
 " Is the beefsteak of mutton ready ? " inquired 
 the Scotchman, cheerfully, with his extraordinary 
 accent. 
 
 Annetta ran past him, and returned almost 
 before he was seated, bringing the food. The girl 
 sat down at the end of the table, opposite the 
 street door, and watched him as he swallowed 
 one mouthful of meat after another, now and then 
 stopping to drink a tumbler of wine at a draught. 
 
 "You must be very strong, Signore," said An- 
 uetta, at last, her chin resting on her doubled hand. 
 
 " Why ? " inquired Dalrymple, carelessly, be 
 tween two mouthfuls. 
 
 " Because you eat so much. It must be a tine 
 thing to eat so much meat. We eat very little 
 of it." 
 
 " Why ? " asked the Scotchman, again between 
 his mouthfuls. 
 
 " Oh, who knows ? It costs much. That must 
 be the reason. Besides, it does not go down. I 
 should not care for it." 
 
 "It is a habit." Dalrymple drank. "In my 
 country most of the people eat oats," he said, as 
 he set down his glass.
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 65 
 
 " Oats ! " laughed the girl. " Like horses ! But 
 horses will eat meat, too, like you. As for me 
 good bread, fresh cheese, a little salad, a drink of 
 wine and water that is enough." 
 
 " Like the nuns," observed Dalrymple, attacking 
 the ham of the ' Grape-eater.' 
 
 " Oh, the nuns ! They live on boiled cabbage ! 
 You can smell it a mile away. But they make 
 good cakes." 
 
 " You often go to the convent, do you not ? " 
 asked the Scotchman, filling his glass, for the first 
 mouthful of ham made him thirsty again. " You 
 take the linen up with your mother, I know." 
 
 " Sometimes, when I feel like going," answered 
 the girl, willing to show that it was not her duty 
 to carry baskets. " I only go when we have the 
 small baskets that one can carry on one's head. I 
 will tell you. They use the small baskets for the 
 finer things, the abbess's linen, and the altar cloths, 
 and the chaplain's lacfi, which belongs to the nuns. 
 But the sheets and the table linen are taken up in 
 baskets as long as a man. It takes four women to 
 carry one of them." 
 
 "That must be very inconvenient," said Dal 
 rymple. " I should think that smaller ones would 
 always be better." 
 
 " Who knows ? It has always been so. And 
 when it has always been so, it will always be so 
 one knows that." 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 Annetta nodded her head rhythmically to convey 
 an impression of the immutability of all ancient 
 customs and of this one in particular. 
 
 Dalrymple, however, was not much interested 
 in the question of the baskets. 
 
 " What do the nuns do all day ? " he asked. " I 
 suppose you see them, sometimes. There must be 
 young ones amongst them." 
 
 Annetta glanced more keenly at the Scotchman's 
 quiet face, and then laughed. 
 
 " There is one, if you could see her ! The 
 abbess's niece. Oh, that one is beautiful. She 
 seems to me a painted angel ! " 
 
 " The abbess's niece ? What is she like ? Let 
 me see, the abbess is a princess, is she not ? " 
 
 "Yes, a great princess of the Princes of Gerano, 
 of Casa Braccio, you know. They are always 
 abbesses. And the young one will be the next, 
 when this one dies. She is Maria Adclolorata, in 
 religion, but I do not know her real name. She 
 has a beautiful face and dark eyes. Once I saw 
 her hair for a moment. It is fair, but not like 
 yours. Yours is red as a tomato." 
 
 "Thank -you," said Dalrymple, with something 
 like a laugh. " Tell me more about the nun." 
 
 " If I tell you, you will fall in love with her," 
 objected Annetta. " They say that men with red 
 hair fall in love easily. Is it true ? If it is, I 
 will not tell you any more about the nun. But
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 67 
 
 I think you are in love with the poor old Grape- 
 eater. It is good ham, is it not? By Bacchus, 
 I fed him on chestnuts with my own hands, and 
 he was always stealing the grapes. Chestnuts fat 
 tened him and the grapes made him sweet. Speak 
 ing with respect, he was a pig for a pope." 
 
 "He will do for a Scotch doctor then," answered 
 Dalrymple. "Tell me, what does this beautiful 
 nun do all day long ? " 
 
 " What does she do ? What can a nun do ? She 
 eats cabbage and prays like the others. But she 
 has charge of all the convent linen, so I see her 
 when I go with my mother. That is because 
 the Princes of Gerano first gave the linen to the 
 convent after it was all stolen by the Turks in 
 1798. So, as they gave it, their abbesses take care 
 of it." 
 
 Dalrymple laughed at the extraordinary his 
 torical allusion compounded of the very ancient 
 traditions of the Saracens in the south, and of the 
 more recent wars of Xapoleon. 
 
 " So she takes care of the linen," he said. " That 
 cannot be very amusing, I should think." 
 
 " They are nuns," answered the girl. " Do you 
 suppose they go about seeking to amuse them 
 selves ? It is an ugly life. But Sister Maria 
 Addolorata sings to herself, and that makes the 
 abbess angry, because it is against the rules to sing 
 except in church. I would not live in that con-
 
 68 CASA SBACCIO. 
 
 vent not if they would fill my apron with gold 
 pieces." 
 
 " But why did this beautiful girl become a nun, 
 then ? Was she unhappy, or crossed in love ? " 
 
 " She ? They did not give her time ! Before 
 she could shut an eye and say, 'Little youth, you 
 please me, and I wish you well,' they put her in. 
 And that door, when it is shut, who shall open it ? 
 The Madonna, perhaps ? But she was of the 
 Princes of Gerano, and there must be one of them 
 for an abbess, and the lot fell upon her. There 
 is the whole history. You may hear her singing 
 sometimes, if you stand under the garden wall, 
 on the narrow path after the Benediction hour and 
 before Ave Maria. But I am a fool to tell you, 
 for you will go and listen, and when you have 
 heard her voice you will be like a madman. You 
 will fall in love with her. I was a fool to tell 
 you." 
 
 "Well ? And if I do fall in love with her, who 
 cares ? " Dalrymple slowly filled a glass of wine. 
 
 " If you do ? " The young girl's eyes shot a 
 quick, sharp glance at him. Then her face sud 
 denly grew grave as she saw that some one was at 
 the street door, looking in cautiously. " Come in, 
 Sor Tommaso ! " she called, down the table. " Papa 
 is out, but we are here. Come in and drink a glass 
 of wine!" 
 
 The doctor, wrapped in a long broadcloth cloak
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 69 
 
 with a velvet collar, and having a case of instru 
 ments and medicines under his arm, glanced round 
 the room and came in. 
 
 "Just a half-foglietta, my daughter," he said. 
 "They have sent for me. The abbess is very ill, 
 and I may be there a long time. If you think they 
 would remember to offer a Christian a glass up 
 there, you are very much mistaken." 
 
 " They are nuns," laughed Annetta. "What can 
 they know ? " 
 
 She rose to get the wine for the doctor. There 
 had not been a trace of displeasure in her voice 
 nor in her manner as she spoke.
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 SOR TOMMASO was rarely called to the convent. 
 In fact, he could not remember that he had been 
 wanted more than half a dozen times in the long 
 course of his practice in Subiaco. Either the nuns 
 were hardly ever ill, or else they must have doc 
 tored themselves with such simple remedies as 
 had been handed down to them from former ages. 
 Possibly they had been as well off on the whole as 
 though they had systematically submitted to the 
 heroic treatment which passed for medicine in 
 those days. As a matter of fact, they suffered 
 chiefly from bad colds; and when they had bad 
 colds, they either got well, or died, according to 
 their several destinies. Sor Tommaso might have 
 saved some of them ; but on the other hand, he 
 might have helped some others rather precipitately 
 from their cells to that deep crypfc, closed, in the 
 middle of the little church, by a single square flag 
 of marble, having two brass studs in it, and bear 
 ing the simple inscription : ' Here lie the bones of 
 the Keverend Sisters of the order of the Blessed 
 Virgin Mary of Mount Carinel.' On the whole, it 
 is doubtful whether the practice of not calling in 
 70
 
 CA8A BEACCIO. 71 
 
 the doctor on ordinary occasions had much influ 
 ence upon the convent's statistics of mortality. 
 
 But though the abbess had more than once had a 
 cold in her life, she had never suffered so seriously 
 as this time, and she had made little objection to 
 her niece's strong representations as to the neces 
 sity of medical aid. Therefore Sor Tommaso had 
 been sent for in the evening and in great haste, and 
 had taken with him a supply of appropriate mate 
 rial sufficient to kill, if not to cure, half the nuns 
 in the convent. All the circumstances which he 
 remembered from former occasions were accurately 
 repeated. He rang at the main gate, waited long 
 in the darkness, and heard at last the slapping and 
 shuffling of shoes along the pavement within, as 
 the portress and another nun came to let him in. 
 Then there were faint rays of light from their 
 little lamp, quivering through the cracks of the 
 old weather-beaten door upon the cracked marble 
 steps on which Sor Tommaso was standing. A 
 thin voice asked who was there, and Sor Tommaso 
 answered that he was the doctor. Then he heard 
 a little colloquy in suppressed tones between the 
 two nuns. The one said that the doctor was 
 expected and must be let in without question. 
 The other observed that it might be a thief. 
 The first said that in that case they must look 
 through the loophole. The second said that she 
 did not know the doctor by sight. The first
 
 72 CASA BBACCIO, 
 
 speaker remarked with some truth that one could 
 tell a respectable person from a highwayman, and 
 suddenly a small square porthole in the door was 
 opened inwards, and a stream of light fell upon Sor 
 Tommaso's face, as the nuns held up their little flar 
 ing lamp behind the grating. Behind the lamp he 
 could distinguish a pair of shadowy eyes under an 
 overhanging veil, which was also drawn across the 
 lower part of the face. 
 
 " Are you really the doctor ? " asked one of the 
 voices, in a doubtful tone. 
 
 " He himself," answered the physician. " I am 
 the Doctor Tommaso Taddei of the University of 
 the Sapienza, and I have been called to render 
 assistance to the very reverend the Mother Abbess." 
 
 The light disappeared, and the porthole was 
 shut, while a second colloquy began. On the 
 whole, the two nuns decided to let him in, and 
 then there was a jingling of keys and a clanking 
 of iron bars and a grinding of locks, and presently 
 a small door, cut and hung in one leaf of the 
 great, iron-studded, wooden gate, was swung back. 
 Sor Tommaso stooped and held his case before 
 him, for the entrance was low and narrow. 
 
 " God be praised ! " he exclaimed, when he was 
 fairly inside. 
 
 " And praised be His holy name," answered both 
 the sisters, promptly. 
 
 Both had dropped their veils, and proceeded to
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 73 
 
 bolt and bar the little door again, having set down 
 the lamp upon the pavement. The rays made the 
 unctuous dampness of the stone flags glisten, and 
 Sor Tommaso shivered in his broadcloth cloak. 
 Then, as before, he was conducted in silence 
 through arched ways, and up many steps, and 
 along labyrinthine corridors, his strong shoes rous 
 ing sharp, metallic echoes, while the nuns' slippers 
 slapped and shuffled as one walked on each side of 
 him, the one on the left carrying the lamp, accord 
 ing to the ancient rules of politeness. At last 
 they reached the door of the antechamber at the 
 end of the corridor, through which the way led to 
 the abbess's private apartment, consisting of three 
 rooms. The last door on the left, as Sor Tommaso 
 faced that which opened into the antechamber, was 
 that of Maria Addolorata's cell. The linen presses 
 were entered from within the anteroom by a door 
 on the right, so that they were actually in the 
 abbess's apartment, an old-fashioned and some 
 what inconvenient arrangement. Maria Addolo- 
 rata, her veil drawn down, so that she could not 
 see the doctor, but only his feet, and the folds of 
 it drawn across her chin and mouth, received him 
 at the door, which she closed behind him. The 
 other two nuns set down their lamp on the floor of 
 the corridor, slipped their hands up their sleeves, 
 and stood waiting outside. 
 
 The abbess was very ill, but had insisted upon
 
 74 CA8A BBACCIO. 
 
 sitting up in her parlour to receive the doctor, 
 dressed and veiled, being propped up in her great 
 easy-chair with a pillow which was of green silk, 
 but was covered with a white pillow-case finely 
 embroidered with open work at each end, through 
 which the vivid colour was visible that high 
 green which cannot look blue even by lamplight. 
 Both in the anteroom and in the parlour there 
 were polished silver lamps of precisely the same 
 pattern as the brass ones used by the richer 
 peasants, excepting that each had a fan-like shield 
 of silver to be used as a shade on one side, bearing 
 the arms of the Braccio family in high boss, and 
 attached to the oil vessel by a movable curved arm. 
 The furniture of the room was very simple, but 
 there was nevertheless a certain ecclesiastical 
 solemnity about the high-backed, carved, and gilt 
 chairs, the black and white marble pavement, the 
 great portrait of his Holiness, Gregory the Six 
 teenth, in its massive gilt frame, the superb silver 
 crucifix which stood on the writing-table, and, 
 altogether, in the solidity of everything which met 
 the eye. 
 
 It was no easy matter to ascertain the good 
 lady's condition, muffled up and veiled as she was. 
 It was only as an enormous concession to necessity 
 that Sor Tommaso was allowed to feel her pulse, 
 and it needed all Maria Addolorata's eloquent per 
 suasion and sensible argument to induce her to lift 
 her veil a little, and open her mouth.
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 75 
 
 " Your most reverend excellency must be cured by 
 proxy," said Sor Tommaso, at his wit's end. "If 
 this reverend mother," he added, turning to the 
 young nun, "will carry out my directions, some 
 thing may be done. Your most reverend excel 
 lency's life is in danger. Your most reverend 
 excellency ought to be in bed." 
 
 " It is the will of Heaven," said the abbess, in a 
 very weak and hoarse voice. 
 
 "Tell me what to do," said Maria Addolorata. 
 " It shall be done as though you yourself did it." 
 
 Sor Tommaso was encouraged by the tone of as 
 surance in which the words were spoken, and pro 
 ceeded to give his directions, which were many, and 
 his recommendations, which were almost endless. 
 
 "But if your most reverend excellency would 
 allow me to assist you in person, the remedies 
 would be more efficacious," he suggested, as he 
 laid out the greater part of the contents of his 
 case upon the huge writing-table. 
 
 " You seem to forget that this is a religious 
 house," replied the abbess, and she might have said 
 more, but was interrupted by a violent attack of 
 coughing, during which Maria Addolorata sup 
 ported her and tried to ease her. 
 
 " It will be better if you go away," said the nun, 
 at last. " I will do all you have ordered, and your 
 presence irritates her. Come back to-morrow morn 
 ing, and I will tell you how she is progressing."
 
 76 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 The abbess nodded slowly, confirming her niece's 
 words. Sor Toramaso very reluctantly closed his 
 case, placed it under his arm, gathered up his broad 
 cloth cloak with his hat, and made a low obeisance 
 before the sick lady. 
 
 "I wish your most reverend excellency a good 
 rest and speedy recovery," he said. "I am your 
 most reverend excellency's most humble servant." 
 
 Maria Addolorata led him out into the ante 
 chamber. There she paused, and they were alone 
 together for a moment, all the doors being closed. 
 The doctor stood still beside her, waiting for her 
 to speak. 
 
 " What do you think ? " she asked. 
 
 " I do not wish to say anything," he answered. 
 " What do you wish me to say ? A stroke of 
 air, a cold, a bronchitis, a pleurisy, a pneumonia. 
 Thanks be to Heaven, there is little fever. What 
 do you wish me to say ? For the stroke of air, a 
 little good wine ; for the cold, warm covering ; for 
 the bronchitis, the tea of marshmallows ; for the 
 pleurisy, severe blistering; for the pneumonia, a 
 good mustard plaster ; for the general system, the 
 black draught ; above all, nothing to eat. Frictions 
 with hot oil will also do good. It is the practice 
 of medicine by proxy, my lady mother. What do 
 you wish me to say ? I am disposed. I am her 
 most reverend excellency's very humble servant. 
 But I cannot perform miracles. Pray to the Ma-
 
 CASA BEACC10. 77 
 
 donna to perform them. I have not even seen the 
 tip of her most reverend excellency's most wise 
 tongue. What can I do ? " 
 
 "Well, then, come back to-morrow morning, and 
 I will see you here," said Maria Addolorata. 
 
 Sor Tommaso found the nuns waiting for him 
 with their little lamp in the corridor, and they led 
 him back through the vaulted passages and stair 
 cases and let him out into the night without a word. 
 
 The night was dark and cloudy. It had grown 
 much darker since he had come up, as the last 
 lingering light of evening had faded altogether 
 from the sky. The October wind drew down in 
 gusts from the mountains above Subiaco, and blew 
 the doctor's long cloak about so that it flapped 
 softly now and then like the wings of a night bird. 
 After descending some distance, he carefully set 
 down his case upon the stones and fumbled in his 
 pockets for his snuffbox, which he found with 
 some difficulty. A gust blew up a grain of snuff 
 into his right eye, and he stamped angrily with the 
 pain, hurting his foot against a rolling stone as he 
 did so. But he succeeded in getting his snuff to 
 his nose at last. Then he bent down in the dark 
 to take up his case, which was close to his feet, 
 though he could hardly see it. The gusty south 
 wind blew the long skirts of his cloak over his 
 head and made them flap about his ears. He 
 groped for the box.
 
 78 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 Just then the doctor heard light footsteps coin 
 ing down the path behind him. He called out, 
 warning that he was in the way. 
 
 "0-e, gently, you know!" he cried. "An ap 
 oplexy on the wind!" he added vehemently, as 
 his head and hands became entangled more and 
 more in the folds of his cloak. 
 
 "And another on you!" answered a woman's 
 voice, speaking low through clenched teeth. 
 
 In the darkness a hand rose and fell with some 
 thing in it, three times in quick succession. A 
 man's low cry of pain was stifled in folds of broad 
 cloth. The same light footsteps were heard for a 
 moment again in the narrow, winding way, and 
 Sor Tommaso was lying motionless on his face 
 across his box, with his cloak over his head. The 
 gusty south wind blew up and down between the 
 dark walls, bearing now and then a few withered 
 vine leaves and wisps of straw with it ; and the 
 night grew darker still, and no one passed that 
 way for a long time.
 
 'Sor Tommaso was lying motionless." Vol. I., p. 78.
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 WHEN Angus Dalrymple had finished his supper, 
 he produced a book and sat reading by the light 
 of the wicks of the three brass lamps. Annetta 
 had taken away the things and had not come back 
 again. Gigetto strolled in and took his guitar 
 from the peg on the wall, and idled about the room, 
 tuning it and humming to himself. He was a tall 
 young fellow with a woman's face and beautiful 
 velvet-like eyes, as handsome and idle a youth as 
 you might meet in Subiaco on a summer's feast- 
 day. He exchanged a word of greeting with 
 Dalrymple, and, seeing that the place was other 
 wise deserted, he at last slung his guitar over 
 his shoulder, pulled his broad black felt hat 
 over his eyes, and strolled out through the half- 
 open door, presumably in search of amusement. 
 Gigetto's chief virtue was his perfectly childlike 
 and unaffected taste for amusing himself, on the 
 whole very innocently, whenever he got a chance. 
 It was natural that he and the Scotchman should 
 not care for one another's society. Dalrymple 
 looked after him for a moment and then went back 
 to his book. A big glass measure of wine stood 
 79
 
 80 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 beside him not half empty, and his glass was 
 full. 
 
 He was making a strong effort to concentrate his 
 attention upon the learned treatise, which formed 
 a part of the little library he had brought with 
 him. But Annetta's idle talk about the nuns, and 
 especially about Maria Addolorata and her singing, 
 kept running through his head in spite of his de 
 termination to be serious. He had been living the 
 life of a hermit for months, and had almost for 
 gotten the sound of an educated woman's voice. 
 To him Annetta was nothing more than a rather 
 pretty wild animal. It did not enter his head that 
 she might be in love with him. Sora Nanna was 
 simply an older and uglier animal of the same 
 species. To a man of Dalryinple's temperament, 
 and really devoted to the pursuit of a serious 
 object, a woman quite incapable of even under 
 standing what that object is can hardly seem to be 
 a woman at all. 
 
 But the young Scotchman was not wanting in 
 that passionate and fantastic imagination which so 
 often underlies and even directs the hardy northern 
 nature, and the young girl's carelessly spoken words 
 had roused it to sudden activity. In spite of him 
 self, he was already forming plans for listening 
 under the convent wall, if perchance he might 
 catch the sound of the nun's wonderful voice, and 
 from that to the wildest schemes for catching a
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 81 
 
 momentary glimpse of the singer was only a step. 
 At the same time, he was quite aware that such 
 schemes were dangerous if not impracticable, and 
 his reasonable self laughed down his unreasoning 
 romance, only to be confronted by it again as soon 
 as he tried to turn his attention to his book. 
 
 He looked up and saw that he had not finished 
 his wine, though at that hour the measure was 
 usually empty, and he wondered why he was less 
 thirsty than usual. By force of habit he emptied 
 the full glass and poured more into it, by force 
 of that old northern habit of drinking a certain 
 allowance as a sort of duty, more common in those 
 days than it is now. Then he began to read again, 
 never dreaming that his strong head and solid 
 nerves could be in any way affected by his potations. 
 But his imagination this evening worked faster 
 and faster, and his sober reason was recalcitrant 
 and abhorred work. 
 
 The nun had fair hair and dark eyes and a beau 
 tiful face. Those were much more interesting facts 
 than he could find in his work. She had a wonder 
 ful voice. He tried to recall all the extraordinary 
 voices he had heard in his life, but none of them 
 had ever affected him very much, though he had a 
 good ear and some taste for music. He wondered 
 what sort of voice this could be, and he longed to 
 hear it. He shut up his book impatiently, drank 
 more wine, rose and went to the open door. The 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 gusty south wind fanned his face pleasantly, and 
 he wished he were to sleep out of doors. 
 
 The Sora Nanna, who had been spending the 
 evening with a friend in the neighbourhood, came 
 in, her thin black overskirt drawn over her head to 
 keep the embroidered head-cloth in its place. By 
 and by, as Dalrymple still stood by the door, 
 Stefanone appeared, having been to play a game 
 of cards at a friendly wine-shop. He sat down by 
 Sora Nanna at the table. She was mixing some 
 salad in a big earthenware bowl adorned with green 
 and brown stripes. They talked together in low 
 tones. Dalrymple had nodded to each in turn, but 
 the gusty air pleased him, and he remained stand 
 ing by the door, letting it blow into his face. 
 
 It was growing late. Italian peasants are not 
 great sleepers, and it is their custom to have 
 supper at a late hour, just before going to bed. 
 By this time it was nearly ten o'clock as we reckon 
 the hours, or about ' four of the night ' in October, 
 according to old Italian custom, which reckons 
 from a theoretical moment of darkness, supposed 
 to begin at Ave Maria, half an hour after sunset. 
 
 Suddenly Dalrymple heard Annetta's voice in 
 the room behind him, speaking to her mother. 
 He had no particular reason for supposing that 
 she had been out of the house since she had 
 cleared the table and left him, but unconsciously 
 he had the impression that she had been away,
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 83 
 
 and was surprised to hear her in the room, after 
 expecting that she should pass him, coming in from 
 the street, as the others had done. He turned and 
 walked slowly towards his place at the table. 
 
 " I thought you had gone out," he said carelessly, 
 to Annetta. 
 
 The girl turned her head quickly. 
 
 " I ? " she cried. " And alone ? Without even 
 Gigetto ? When do I ever go out alone at night ? 
 Will you have some supper, Signore ? " 
 
 "I have just eaten, thank you," answered Dal- 
 rymple, seating himself. 
 
 "Three hours ago. It was not yet an hour of 
 the night when you ate. Well at your pleasure. 
 Do not complain afterwards that we make you die 
 of hunger." 
 
 " Bread, Annetta ! " said Stefanone, gruffly but 
 good-naturedly. "And cheese, and salt wine, too ! 
 A thousand things ! Quickly, my daughter." 
 
 " Quicker than this ? " inquired the girl, who 
 had already placed most of the things he asked for 
 upon the table. 
 
 "I say it to say it," answered her father. 
 " ' Hunger makes long jumps,' and I am hungry." 
 
 "Did you win anything?" asked Sora Nanna, 
 with both her elbows on the table. 
 
 " Five baiocchi." 
 
 "It was worth while to pay ten baiscchi for 
 another man's bad wine, for the sake of winning
 
 84 CAS A BRAG CIO. 
 
 so much ! " replied Sora Nanna, who was a careful 
 soul. " Of course you paid for the wine ? " 
 
 "Eh of course. They pay for wine when 
 they come here. One takes a little and one gives 
 a little. This is life." 
 
 Annetta busied herself with the simple prepa 
 rations for supper, while they talked. Dalryinple 
 watched her idly, and he thought she was pale, 
 and that her eyes were very bright. She had set 
 a plate for herself, but had forgotten her glass. 
 
 "And you? Do'you not drink?" asked Stefa- 
 none. " You have no glass." 
 
 " What does it matter ? " She sat down between 
 her father and mother. 
 
 "Drink out of mine, my little daughter," said 
 Stefanone, holding his glass to her lips with a 
 laugh, as though she had been a little child. 
 
 She looked quietly into his eyes for a moment, 
 before she touched the win with her lips. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, with a little emphasis. 
 "I will drink out of your glass now." 
 
 "Better so," kiughed Stefanone, who was glad 
 to be reconciled, for he loved the girl, in spite of 
 his occasional violence of temper. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " asked Sora Nanna, her 
 cunning peasant's eyes looking from one to the 
 other, and seeming to belie her stupid face. 
 
 " Nothing," answered Stefanone. " We were 
 playing together. Signor Englishman," he said,
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 85 
 
 turning to Dalrymple, "you must sometimes wish 
 that you were married, and had a wife like Nanna, 
 and a daughter like Annetta." 
 
 "Of course I do," said Dalryinple, with a 
 smile. 
 
 Before very long, he took his book and went 
 upstairs to bed, being tired and sleepy after a 
 long day spent on the hillside in a fruitless search 
 for certain plants which, according to his books, 
 were to be found in that part of Italy, -but which 
 he had not yet seen. He fell asleep, thinking 
 of Maria Addolorata's lovely face and fair hair, on 
 which he had never laid eyes. In his dreams he 
 heard a rare voice ringing true, that touched him 
 strangely. The gusty wind made the panes of his 
 bedroom window rattle, and in the dream he was 
 tapping on Maria Addolorata's casement and call 
 ing softly to her, to open it and speak to him, or 
 calling her by name, with his extraordinary foreign 
 accent. And he thought he was tapping louder 
 and louder, upon the glass and upon the wooden 
 frame, louder and louder still. Then he heard his 
 name called out, and his heart jumped as though 
 it would have turned upside down in its place, and 
 then seemed to sink again like a heavy stone falling 
 into deep water ; for he was awake, and the voice 
 that was calling him was certainly not that of 
 the beautiful nun, but gruff and manly; also the 
 tapping was not tapping any more upon a case-
 
 86 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 ment, but was a vigorous pounding against his 
 own bolted door. 
 
 Dalrymple sat up suddenly and listened, wide 
 awake at once. The square of his window was 
 faintly visible in the darkness, as though the dawn 
 were breaking. He called out, asking who was 
 outside. 
 
 "Get up, Siguore! Get up! You are wanted 
 quickly ! " It was Stefanone. 
 
 Dalrymple struck a light, for he had a supply 
 of matches with him, a convenience of modern life 
 not at that time known in Subiaco, except as an 
 expensive toy, though already in use in Home. 
 As he was, he opened the door. Stefanone came 
 in, dressed in his shirt and breeches, pale with 
 excitement. 
 
 " You must dress yourself, Signore," he said 
 briefly, as he glanced at the Scotchman, and then 
 set down the small tin and glass lantern he 
 carried. 
 
 "What is the matter?" inquired Dalrymple, 
 yawning, and stretching his great white arms over 
 his head, till his knuckles struck the low ceiling; 
 for he was a tall man. 
 
 "The matter is that they have killed Sor Tom- 
 rnaso," answered the peasant. 
 
 Dalrymple uttered an exclamation of surprise 
 and incredulity. 
 
 " It is as I say," continued Stefanone. " They
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 87 
 
 found him lying across the way, in the street, with 
 knife-wounds in him, as many as you please." 
 
 " That is horrible ! " exclaimed Dalrymple, turn 
 ing, and calmly trimming his lamp, which burned 
 badly at first. 
 
 " Then dress yourself, Signore ! " said Stefanone, 
 impatiently. " You must come ! " 
 
 " Why ? If he is dead, what can I do ? " asked 
 the northern man, coolly. "I am sorry. What 
 more can I say?" 
 
 " But he is not dead yet ! " Stefanone was 
 growing excited. " They have taken him " 
 
 " Oh ! he is alive, is he ? " interrupted the 
 Scotchman, dashing at his clothes, as though he 
 were suddenly galvanized into life himself. " Then 
 why did you tell me they had killed him ? " he 
 asked, with a curious, dry calmness of voice, as 
 he instantly began to dress himself. "Get some 
 clean linen, Signer Stefano. Tear it up into strips 
 as broad as your hand, for bandages, and set the 
 women to make a little lint of old linen cot 
 ton is not good. Where have they taken Sor 
 Tommaso ? " 
 
 " To his own house," answered the peasant. 
 
 " So much the better. Go and make the bandages." 
 
 Dalrymple pushed Stefanone towards the door 
 with one hand, while he continued to fasten his 
 clothes with the other. 
 
 Stefanone was not without some experience of
 
 88 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 similar eases, so he picked up his lantern and went 
 off. In less than a quarter of an hour, he and 
 Dalrymple were on their way to Sor Tominaso's 
 house, which was in the piazza of Subiaco, not far 
 from the principal church. Half a dozen peasants, 
 who had met the muleteers bringing the wounded 
 doctor home from the spot where he had been 
 found, followed the two men, talking excitedly in 
 low voices and broken sentences. The dawn was 
 grey above the houses, and the autumn mists had 
 floated up to the parapet on the side where the 
 little piazza looked down to the valley, and hung 
 motionless in the still air, like a stage sea in a 
 theatre. In the distance was heard the clattering 
 of mules' shoes, and occasionally the deep clank 
 ing of the goats' bells. Just as the little party 
 reached the small, dark green door of the doctor's 
 house the distant convent bells tolled one, then 
 two quick strokes, then three again, and then 
 five, and then rang out the peal for the morning 
 Angelus. The door of the dirty little coffee shop 
 in the piazza was already open, and a faint light 
 burned within. The air was damp, quiet and 
 strangely resonant, as it often is in mountain towns 
 at early dawn. The gusty October wind had gone 
 down, after blowing almost all night. 
 
 The case was far from being as serious as Dal 
 rymple had expected, and he soon convinced him 
 self that Sor Tommaso was not in any great danger.
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 89 
 
 He had fainted from fright and some loss of blood, 
 but neither of the two thrusts which had wounded 
 him had penetrated to his lungs, and the third was 
 little more than a scratch. Doubtless he owed his 
 safety in part to the fact that the wind had blown 
 his cloak in folds over his shoulders and head. 
 But it was also clear that his assailant had pos 
 sessed no experience in the use of the knife as a 
 weapon. When the group of men at the door were 
 told that Sor Tommaso was not mortally wounded, 
 they went away somewhat disappointed at the in 
 significant ending of the affair, though the doctor 
 was not an unpopular man in the town. 
 
 "It is some woman," said one of them, contempt 
 uously. " What can a woman do with a knife ? 
 Worse than a cat she scratches, and runs away." 
 
 " Some little jealousy," observed another. " Eh ! 
 Sor Tommaso who knows where he makes love ? 
 But meanwhile he is growing old, to be so gay." 
 
 " The old are the worst," replied the first 
 speaker. "Since it is nothing, let us have a 
 baiocco's worth of acquavita, and let us go away." 
 
 So they turned into the dirty little coffee shop 
 to get their pennyworth of spirits. Meanwhile 
 Dalrymple was washing and binding up his 
 friend's wounds. Sor Tommaso groaned and 
 winced under every touch, and the Scotchman, 
 with dry gentleness, did his best to reassure him. 
 Stefanone looked on in silence for some time,
 
 90 CAS A BRACCJO, 
 
 helping Dalrymple when he was needed. The 
 doctor's servant-woman, a somewhat grimy peas 
 ant, was sitting on the stairs, sobbing loudly. 
 
 "It is useless," moaned Sor Tommaso. "I am 
 dead." 
 
 "I may be mistaken," answered Dalrymple, 
 "but I think not." 
 
 And he continued his operations with a sure 
 hand, greatly to the admiration of Stefanone, 
 who had often seen knife-wounds dressed. Grad 
 ually Sor Tommaso became more calm. His face, 
 from having been normally of a bright red, was 
 now very pale, and his watery blue eyes blinked at 
 the light helplessly like a kitten's, as he lay still 
 on his pillow. Stefanone went away to his occu 
 pations at last, and Dalrymple, having cleared 
 away the litter of unused bandages and lint, and 
 set things in order, sat down by the bedside to 
 keep his patient company for a while. He was 
 really somewhat anxious lest the wounds should 
 have taken cold. 
 
 "If I get well, it will be a miracle," said Sor 
 Tommaso, feebly. " I must think of my soul." 
 
 "By all means," answered the Scotchman. "It 
 can do your soul no harm, and contemplation 
 rests the body." 
 
 "You Protestants have not human sentiment," 
 observed the Italian, moving his head slowly on 
 the pillow. " But I also think of the abbess. I
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 91 
 
 was to have gone there early this morning. She 
 will also die. We shall both die." 
 
 Dalrymple crossed one leg over the other, and 
 looked quietly at the doctor. 
 
 " Sor Tommaso," he said, " there is no other 
 physician in Subiaco. I am a doctor, properly 
 licensed to practise. It is evidently my duty to 
 take care of your patients while you are ill." 
 
 " Mercy ! " cried Sor Tommaso, with sudden 
 energy, and opening his eyes very wide. 
 
 " Are you afraid that I shall kill them," asked 
 Dalrymple, with a smile. 
 
 " Who knows ? A foreigner ! And the people 
 say that you have converse with the devil. But 
 the common people are ignorant." 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " And as for the convent a Protestant for 
 the abbess ! They would rather die. Figure to 
 yourself what sort of a scandal there would be ! 
 A Protestant in a convent, and then, in that con 
 vent, too! The abbess would much rather die 
 in peace." 
 
 " At all events, I will go and offer my services. 
 If the abbess prefers to die in peace, she can 
 answer to that effect. I will ask her what she 
 thinks about it." 
 
 " Ask her ! " repeated Sor Tommaso. " Do you 
 imagine that you could see her ? But what can 
 you know ? I tell you that last night she was
 
 92 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 muffled up in her chair, and her face covered. 
 It needed the grace of Heaven, that I might feel 
 her pulse ! As for her tongue, God knows what 
 it is like ! I have not seen it. Not so much as 
 the tip of it ! Not even her eyes did I see. And 
 to-day I was not to be admitted at all, because the 
 abbess would be in bed. Imagine to yourself, with 
 blisters and sinapisms, and a hundred things. I 
 was only to speak with Sister Maria Addolorata, 
 who is her niece, you know, in the anteroom of the 
 abbess's apartment. They would not let you in. 
 They would give you a bath of holy water 
 through the loophole of the convent door and 
 say, ' Go away, sinner ; this is a religious house ! ' 
 You know them very little." 
 
 "You are talking too much," observed Dal- 
 rymple, who had listened attentively. "It is not 
 good for you. Besides, since you are able to 
 speak, it would be better if you told me who 
 stabbed you last night, that I may go to the 
 police, and have the person arrested, if possible." 
 
 "You do not know what you are saying," an 
 swered Sor Tominaso, with sudden gravity. " The 
 woman has relations who could handle a knife 
 better than she." 
 
 And he turned his face away.
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 THE sun was high when Dalrymple left Sor 
 Tornmaso in charge of the old woman-servant and 
 went back to Stefanone's house to dress himself 
 with more care than he had bestowed upon his 
 hasty toilet at dawn. And now that he had plenty 
 of time, he was even more careful of his appear 
 ance than usual ; for he had fully determined to 
 attempt to take Sor Tommaso's place in attendance 
 upon the abbess. He therefore put on a coat of 
 a sober colour and brushed his straight red hair 
 smoothly back from his forehead, giving himself 
 easily that extremely grave and trust-inspiring air 
 which distinguishes many Scotchmen, and supports 
 their solid qualities, while it seems to deny the 
 possibility of any adventurous and romantic ten 
 dency. 
 
 At that hour nobody was about the house, and 
 Dalrymple, stick in hand, sallied forth upon his 
 expedition, looking for all the world as though he 
 were going to church in Edinburgh instead of med 
 itating an entrance into an Italian convent. He 
 had said nothing more to the doctor on the subject. 
 Th.3 people in the streets had most of them seen 
 93
 
 94 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 him often and knew him by name, and it did not 
 occur to any one to wonder why a foreigner should 
 wear one sort of coat rather than another, when he 
 took his walks abroad. He walked leisurely ; for 
 the sky had cleared, and the sun was hot. More 
 over, he followed the longer road in order to keep 
 his shoes clean, instead of climbing up the narrow 
 and muddy lane in which Sor Toiumaso had been 
 attacked. He reached the convent door at last, 
 brushed a few specks of dust from his coat, settled 
 his high collar and the broad black cravat which 
 was then taking the place of the stock, and rang 
 the bell with one steady pull. There was, per 
 haps, no occasion for nervousness. At all events, 
 Dairy mple was as deliberate in his movements and 
 as calm in all respects as he had ever been in his 
 life. Only, just after he had pulled the weather- 
 beaten bell-chain, a half-humorous smile bent his 
 even lips and was gone again in a moment. 
 
 There was the usual slapping and shuffling of 
 slippers in the vaulted archway within, but as it 
 was now day, the loophole was opened immediately, 
 and the portress came alone. Dalrymple explained 
 in strangely accented but good Italian that Sor 
 Tommaso had met with an accident in the night ; 
 that he, Angus Dalrymple, was a friend of the 
 doctor's and a doctor himself, and had undertaken 
 all of Sor Tommaso's duties, and, finally, that he 
 begged the portress to find Sister Maria Addolo-
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 95 
 
 rata, to repeat his story, and to offer his humble 
 services in the cause of the abbess's recovery. All 
 of which the veiled nun within heard patiently to 
 the end. 
 
 " I will speak to Sister Maria Addolorata," she 
 said. " Have the goodness to wait." 
 
 " Outside ? " inquired Dalrymple, as the little 
 shutter of the loophole was almost closed. 
 
 " Of course," answered the nun, opening it again, 
 and shutting it as soon as she had spoken. 
 
 Dalrymple waited a long time in the blazing 
 sun. The main entrance of the convent faced to 
 the southeast, and it was not yet midday. He 
 grew hot, after his walk, and softly wiped his fore 
 head, and carefully folded his handkerchief again 
 before returning it to his pocket. At last he heard 
 the sound of steps again, and in a few seconds the 
 loophole was once more opened. 
 
 " Sister Maria Addolorata will speak with you," 
 said the portress's voice, as he approached his face 
 to the little grating. 
 
 He felt an odd little thrill of pleasant surprise. 
 But so far as seeing anything was concerned, he 
 was disappointed. Instead of one veiled nun, there 
 were now two veiled nuns. 
 
 " "Madam," he began, "my friend Doctor Tom- 
 maso Taddei has met with an accident which pre 
 vents him from leaving his bed." And he went on 
 to repeat all that he had told the portress, with such
 
 96 CAS A BE AC CIO. 
 
 further explanations as he deemed necessary and 
 persuasive. 
 
 While he spoke, Maria Addolorata drew back a 
 little into the deeper shadow away from the loop 
 hole. Her veil hung over her eyes, and the folds 
 were drawn across her mouth, but she gradually 
 raised her head, throwing it back until she could 
 see Dalrymple's face from beneath the edge of the 
 black material. In so doing she unconsciously un 
 covered her mouth. The Scotchman saw a good 
 part of her features, and gazed intently at what he 
 saw, rightly judging that as the sun was behind 
 him, she could hardly be sure whether he were 
 looking at her or not. 
 
 As for her, she was doubtless inspired by a natu 
 ral curiosity, but at the same time she understood 
 the gravity of the case and wished to form an 
 opinion as to the advisability of admitting the 
 stranger. A glance told her that Dalrymple was 
 a gentleman, and she was reassured by the gravity 
 of his voice and by the fact that he was evidently 
 acquainted with the abbess's condition, and must, 
 therefore, be a friend of Sor Tommaso. When he 
 had finished speaking, she immediately looked 
 down again, and seemed to be hesitating. 
 
 " Open the door, Sister Filomena," she said "at 
 last. 
 
 The portress shook her head almost impercepti 
 bly as she obeyed, but she said nothing. The
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 97 
 
 whole affair was in her eyes exceedingly irregular. 
 Maria Addolorata should have retired to the little 
 room adjoining the convent parlour, and sepa 
 rated from it by a double grating, and Dalrymple 
 should have been admitted to the parlour itself, 
 and they should have said what they had to say 
 to one another through the bars, in the presence 
 of the portress. But Maria Addolorata was the 
 abbess's niece. The abbess was too ill to give 
 orders too ill even to speak, it was rumoured. 
 In a few days Maria Addolorata might be ' Her 
 most Eeverend Excellency.' Meanwhile she was 
 mistress of the situation, and it was safer to obey 
 her. Moreover, the portress was only a lay sister, 
 an old and ignorant creature, accustomed to do 
 what she was told to do by the ladies of the 
 convent. 
 
 Dalrymple took off his hat and stooped low to 
 enter through the small side-door. As soon as he 
 had passed the threshold, he stood up to his 
 height and then made a low bow to Maria Addolo 
 rata, whose veil now quite covered her eyes and 
 prevented her from seeing him, a fact which he 
 realized immediately. 
 
 " Give warning to the sisters, Sister Filomena," 
 said Maria Addolorata to the portress, who nodded 
 respectfully and walked away into the gloom under 
 the arches, leaving the nun and Dalrymple together 
 by the door. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 " It is necessary to give warning," she explained, 
 " lest you should meet any of the sisters unveiled 
 in the corridors, and they should be scandalized." 
 
 Dalrymple again bowed gravely and stood still, 
 his eyes fixed upon Maria Addolorata's veiled head, 
 but wandering now and then to her heavy but 
 beautifully shaped white hands, which she held 
 carelessly clasped before her and holding the end 
 of the great rosary of brown beads which hung 
 from her side. He thought he had never seen 
 such hands before. They were high-bred, and yet 
 at the same time there was a strongly material 
 attraction about them. 
 
 He did not know what to say, and as nothing 
 seemed to be expected of him, he kept silence for 
 some time. At last^ Maria Addolorata, as though 
 impatient at the long absence of the portress, 
 tapped the pavement softly with her sandal 
 slipper, and turned her head in the direction of 
 the arches as though to listen for approaching foot 
 steps. 
 
 " I hope that the abbess is no worse than when 
 Doctor Taddei saw her last night," observed Dal 
 rymple. 
 
 " Her most reverend excellency," answered Maria 
 Addolorata, with a little emphasis, as though to 
 teach him the proper mode of addressing the ab 
 bess, " is suffering. She has had a bad night." 
 
 " I shall hope to be allowed to give some advice
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 99 
 
 to her most reverend excellency," said Dalrym- 
 ple, to show that he had understood the hint. 
 
 " She will not allow you to see her. But you 
 shall come with me to the antechamber, and I will 
 speak with her and tell you what she says." 
 
 " I shall be greatly obliged, and will do my best 
 to give good advice without seeing the patient." 
 
 Another pause followed, during which neither 
 moved. Then Maria Addolorata spoke again, fur 
 ther reassured, perhaps, by Dalrymple's quiet and 
 professional tone. She had too lately left the 
 world to have lost the habit of making conversa 
 tion to break an awkward silence. Years of seclu 
 sion, too, instead of making her shy and silent, had 
 given her something of the ease and coolness of 
 a married woman. This was natural enough, con 
 sidering that she was born of worldly people and 
 had acquired the manners of the world in her own 
 home, in childhood. 
 
 "You are an Englishman, I presume, Signor 
 Doctor ? " she observed, in a tone of interrogation. 
 
 "A Scotchman, Madam," answered Dalrymple, 
 correcting her and drawing himself up a little. 
 " My name is Angus Dalrymple." 
 
 "It is the same an Englishman or a Scotch 
 man," said the nun. 
 
 "Pardon me, Madam, we consider that there is 
 a great difference. The Scotch are chiefly Celts. 
 Englishmen are Anglo-Saxons."
 
 100 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 "But you are all Protestants. It is therefore 
 the same for us." 
 
 Dalrymple feared a discussion of the question 
 of religion. He did not answer the nun's last 
 remark, but bowed politely. She, of course, could 
 not see the inclination he made. 
 
 "You say nothing," she said presently. "Are 
 you a Protestant?" 
 
 "Yes, Madam." 
 
 " It is a pity ! " said Maria Addolorata. " May 
 God send you light." 
 
 "Thank you, Madam." 
 
 Maria Addolorata smiled under her veil at the 
 polite simplicity of the reply. She had met Eng 
 lishmen in Rome. 
 
 "It is no longer customary to address us as 
 ' Madam,' " she answered, a moment later. " It is 
 more usual to speak to us as ' Sister ' or ' Eeverend 
 Sister' or ''Sister Maria.' I am Sister Maria 
 Addolorata. But you know it, for you sent your 
 message to me." 
 
 "Doctor Taddei told me. 
 
 At this point the portress appeared in the dis 
 tance, and Maria Addolorata, hearing footsteps, 
 turned her head from Dalrymple, raising her veil 
 a little, so that she could recognize the lay sister 
 without showing her face to the young man. 
 
 " Let us go," she said, dropping her veil again, 
 and beginning to walk on. "The sisters are 
 warned."
 
 CASA BEACC10. 101 
 
 Dalrymple followed her in silence and at a 
 respectful distance, congratulating himself upon 
 his extraordinary good fortune in having got so 
 far on the first attempt, and inwardly praying that 
 Sor Tomrnaso's wounds might take a considerable 
 time in healing. It had all come about so natu 
 rally that he had lost the sensation of doing 
 something adventurous which had at first taken 
 possession of him, and he now regarded everything 
 as possible, even to being invited to a friendly cup 
 of tea in Sister Maria Addolorata's sitting-room; 
 for he imagined her as having a sitting-room and 
 as drinking tea there in a semi-luxurious privacy. 
 The idea would have amused an Italian of those 
 days, when tea was looked upon as medicine. 
 
 They reached the end of the last corridor. Dal 
 rymple, like Sor Tommaso, was admitted to the 
 antechamber, while the portress waited outside 
 to conduct him back again. But Maria did not 
 take him into the abbess's parlour, into which she 
 went at once, closing the door behind her. Dal 
 rymple sat down upon a carved wooden box-bench, 
 and waited. The nun was gone a long time. 
 
 "I have kept you waiting," she said, as she 
 entered the little room again. 
 
 "My time is altogether at your service, Sister 
 Maria Addolorata," he answered, rising quickly. 
 " How is her most reverend excellency ? " 
 
 "Very ill. I do not know what to say. She
 
 102 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 will not hear of seeing you. I fear she will not 
 live long, for she can hardly breathe." 
 
 " Does she cough ? " 
 
 "Not much. Not so much as last night. She 
 complains that she cannot draw her breath and 
 that her lungs feel full of something." 
 
 The case was evidently serious, and Dalrymple, 
 who was a physician by nature, proceeded to ex 
 tract as much information as he could from the 
 nun, who did her best to answer all his questions 
 clearly. The long conversation, with its little 
 restraints and its many attempts at a mutual 
 understanding, did more to accustom Maria Addo- 
 lorata to Dalrymple's presence and personality 
 than any number of polite speeches on his part 
 could have done. There is an unavoidable ten 
 dency to intimacy between any two people who 
 are together engaged in taking care of a sick 
 person. 
 
 "I can give you directions and good advice," 
 said Dalrymple, at last. " But it can never be the 
 same as though I could see the patient myself. Is 
 there no possible means of obtaining her consent ? 
 She may die for the want of just such advice as 
 I can only give after seeing her. Would not her 
 brother, his Eminence the Cardinal, perhaps recom 
 mend her to let me visit her once ? " 
 
 "That is an idea," answered the nun, quickly. 
 " My uncle is a man of broad views. I have heard
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 103 
 
 it said in Rome. I could write to him that Doctor 
 Taddei is unable to come, and that a celebrated 
 foreign physician is here " 
 
 "Not celebrated," interrupted Dalrymple, with 
 his literal Scotch veracity. 
 
 "What difference can it make?" uttered Maria 
 Addolorata, moving her shoulders a little impa 
 tiently. "He will be the more ready to use his 
 influence, for he is much attached to my aunt. 
 Then, if he can persuade her, I can send down the 
 gardener to the town for you this afternoon. It 
 may not be too late." 
 
 " I see that you have some confidence in me," 
 said Dalrymple. "I am of a newer school than 
 Doctor Taddei. If you will follow my directions, 
 I will almost promise that her most reverend ex 
 cellency shall not die before to-morrow." 
 
 He smiled now, as he gave the abbess her full 
 title, for he began to feel as though he had known 
 Maria Addolorata for a long time, though he had 
 only had one glimpse of her eyes, just when she 
 had raised her head to get a look at him through 
 the loophole of the gate. But he had not forgotten 
 them, and he felt that he knew them. 
 
 " I will do all you tell me," she answered quietly. 
 
 Dalrymple had some English medicines with him 
 on his travels, and not knowing what might be 
 required of him at the convent, he had brought 
 with him a couple of tiny bottles.
 
 104 CAS A BE AC CIO. 
 
 "This when she coughs ten drops," he said, 
 handing the bottles to the nun. " And five drops 
 of this once an hour, until her chest feels freer." 
 
 He gave her minute directions, as far as he 
 could, about the general treatment of the patient, 
 which Maria repeated and got by heart. 
 
 " I will let you know before twenty-three o'clock 
 what the cardinal says to the plan," she said. " In 
 this way you will be able to come up by daylight." 
 
 As Dalrymple took his leave, he held out his 
 hand, forgetting that he was in Italy. 
 
 " It is not our custom," said Maria Addolorata, 
 thrusting each of her own hands into the opposite 
 sleeve. 
 
 But there was nothing cold in her tone. On the 
 contrary, Dalrymple fancied that she was almost 
 on the point of laughing at that moment, and he 
 blushed at his awkwardness. But she could not 
 see his face. 
 
 "Your most humble servant," he said, bowing 
 to her. 
 
 "Good day, Signor Doctor," she answered, 
 through the open door, as the portress jingled 
 her keys and prepared to follow Dalrymple. 
 
 So he took his departure, not without much 
 satisfaction at the result of his first attempt.
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 SOR TOMMASO recovered but slowly, though his 
 injuries were of themselves not dangerous. His 
 complexion was apoplectic and gouty, he was no 
 longer young, and before forty-eight hours had 
 gone by his wounds were decidedly inflamed and 
 he had a little fever. At the same time he was by 
 no means a courageous man, and he was ready to 
 cry out that he was dead, whenever he felt himself 
 worse. Besides this, he lost his temper several 
 times daily with Dalrymple, who resolutely refused 
 to bleed him, and he insisted upon eating and 
 drinking more than was good for him, at a time 
 when if he had been his own patient he would 
 have enforced starvation as necessary to recovery. 
 
 Meanwhile the cardinal had exerted his influence 
 with his sister, the abbess, and had so far succeeded 
 that Dalrymple, who went every day to the con 
 vent, was now made to stand with his back to the 
 abbess's open door, in order that he might at least 
 ask her questions and hear her own answers. 
 Many an old Italian doctor can tell of even 
 stranger and more absurd precautions observed by 
 the nuns of those days. As soon as the oral 
 105
 
 106 CA8A BRACCIO. 
 
 examination was over, Maria Addolorata shut the 
 door and came out into the parlour, where Dalrym- 
 ple finished his visit, prolonging it in conversation 
 with her by every means he could devise. 
 
 Though encumbered with a little of the northern 
 shyness, Dalrymple was not diffident. There is 
 a great difference between shyness and diffidence. 
 Diffidence distrusts itself; shyness distrusts the 
 mere outward impression made on others. At this 
 time Dalrymple had no object beyond enjoyirg the 
 pleasure of talking with Maria Addolorata, and no 
 hope beyond that of some day seeing her face with 
 out the veil. As for her voice, his present position 
 as doctor to the convent made it foolish for him to 
 run the risk of being caught listening for her songs 
 behind the garden wall. But he had not forgotten 
 what Annetta had told him, and Maria Addolorata' s 
 soft intonations and liquid depths of tone in speak 
 ing led him to believe that the peasant girl had 
 not exaggerated the nun's gift of singing. 
 
 One day, after he had seen her and talked with 
 her more than half a dozen times, he approached 
 the subject, merely for the sake of conversation, 
 saying that he had been told of her beautiful 
 voice by people who had heard her across the 
 garden. 
 
 "It is true," she answered simply. "I have a 
 good voice. But it is forbidden here to sing except 
 in church," she added with a sigh. "And now
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 107 
 
 that my aunt is ill, I would not displease her for 
 anything." 
 
 "That is natural," said Dalrymple. "But I 
 would give anything in the world to hear you." 
 
 "In church you can hear me. The church is 
 open on Sundays at the Benediction service. We 
 are behind the altar in the choir, of course. But 
 perhaps you would know my voice from the rest 
 because it is deeper." 
 
 "I should know it in a hundred thousand," 
 asseverated the Scotchman, with warmth. 
 
 " That would be a great many a whole choir 
 of angels ! " And the nun laughed softly, as she 
 sometimes did, now that she knew him so much 
 better. 
 
 There was something warm and caressing in her 
 laughter, short and low as it was, that made Dal 
 rymple look at those full white hands of hers and 
 wonder whether they might not be warm and 
 caressing too. 
 
 " Will you sing a little louder than the rest next 
 Sunday afternoon, Sister Maria?" he asked. "I 
 will be in the church." 
 
 " That would be a great sin," she answered, but 
 not very gravely. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I should have to be thinking about 
 you instead of about the holy service. Do you 
 not know that ? But nothing is sinful according
 
 108 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 to you Protestants, I suppose. At all events, come 
 to the church." 
 
 " Do you think we are all devils, Sister Maria ? " 
 asked Dalrymple, with a smile. 
 
 " More or less." She laughed again. " They 
 say in the town that you have a compact with 
 the devil." 
 
 " Do you hear what is said in the town ? " 
 
 " Sometimes. The gardener brings the gossip and 
 tells it to the cook. Or Sora Nanna tells it to me 
 when she brings the linen. There are a thousand 
 ways. The people think we know nothing because 
 they never see us. But we hear all that goes on." 
 
 Dalrymple said nothing in answer for some time. 
 Then he spoke suddenly and rather hoarsely. 
 
 " Shall I never see you, Sister Maria ? " he asked. 
 
 " Me ? But you see me every day " 
 
 " Yes, but your face, without the veil" 
 
 Maria Addolorata shook her head. 
 
 " It is against all rules," she answered. 
 
 " Is it not against all rules that we should sit here 
 and make conversation every day for half an hour ? " 
 
 " Yes I suppose it is. But you are here as a 
 doctor to take care of my aunt," she added quickly. 
 " That makes it right. You are not a man. You 
 are a doctor." 
 
 "Oh, I understand." Dalrymple laughed a 
 little. "Then I am never to see your beautiful 
 face ? "
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 109 
 
 "How do you know it is beautiful, since you 
 have never seen it ? " 
 
 "From your beautiful hands," answered the 
 young man, promptly. 
 
 " Oh ! " Maria Addolorata glanced at her hands 
 and then, with a movement which might have been 
 quicker, concealed them in her sleeves. 
 
 " It is a sin to hide what God has made beauti 
 ful," said Dalrymple. 
 
 " If I have anything about me that is beautiful, 
 it is for God's glory that I hide it," answered 
 Maria, with real gravity this time. 
 
 Dalrymple understood that he had gone a little 
 too far, though he did not exactly regret it, for the 
 next words she spoke showed him that she was not 
 really offended. Nevertheless, in order to exhibit 
 a proper amount of contrition he took his leave 
 with a little more formality than usual on this par 
 ticular occasion. Possibly she was willing to show 
 that she forgave him, for she hesitated a moment 
 just before opening the door, and then, to his great 
 surprise, held out her hand to him. 
 
 " It is your custom," she said, just touching his 
 eagerly outstretched fingers. "But you must not 
 look at it," she added, drawing it back quickly and 
 hiding it in her sleeve with another low laugh. 
 And she began to shut the door almost before he 
 had quite gone through. 
 
 Dalrymple walked more slowly on that day, as
 
 110 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 he descended through the steep and narrow streets, 
 and though he was surefooted by nature and habit, 
 he almost stumbled once or twice on his way down, 
 because, somehow, though his eyes looked towards 
 his feet, he did not see exactly where he was 
 going. 
 
 There is no necessity for analyzing his sensa 
 tions. It is enough to say at once that he was 
 beginning to be really in love with Maria Addolo- 
 rata, and that he denied the fact to himself stoutly, 
 though it forced itself upon him with every step 
 which took him further from the convent. He felt 
 on that day a strong premonitory symptom in the 
 shape of a logical objection, as it were, to his 
 returning again to see the nun. The objection was 
 the evident and total futility of the almost intimate 
 intercourse into which the two were gliding. The 
 day must soon come when the abbess would no 
 longer need his assistance. In all probability she 
 would recover, for the more alarming symptoms 
 had disappeared, and she showed signs of regaining 
 her strength by slow degrees. It was quite clear 
 to Dairy m pie that, after her ultimate recovery, his 
 chance of seeing and talking with Maria Addolo- 
 rata would be gone forever. Sor Tornrnaso, indeed, 
 recovered but slowly. Of the two his case was the 
 worse, for fever had set in on the third day and 
 had not left him yet, so that he assured Dalrymple 
 almost hourly that his last moment was at hand.
 
 CASA BEACCIO. Ill 
 
 But he also was sure to get well, in the Scotch 
 man's opinion, and the latter knew well enough 
 that his own temporary privileges as physician 
 to the convent would be withdrawn from him as 
 soon as the Subiaco doctor should be able to climb 
 the hill. 
 
 It was all, therefore, but a brief incident in his 
 life, which could not possibly have any continua 
 tion hereafter. He tried in vain to form plans 
 and create reasons for seejing Maria Addolorata 
 even once a month for some time to come, but his 
 ingenuity failed him altogether, and he grew angry 
 with himself for desiring what was manifestly 
 impossible. 
 
 With true masculine inconsequence, so soon as 
 he was displeased with himself he visited his dis 
 pleasure upon the object that attracted him, and 
 on the earliest possible occasion, on their very 
 next meeting. He assumed an air of coldness and 
 reserve such as he had certainly not thought neces 
 sary to put on at his first visit. Almost without 
 any preliminary words of courtesy, and without any 
 attempt to prolong the short conversation which 
 always took place before he was made to stand 
 with his back to the abbess's open door, he coldly 
 inquired about the good lady's condition during 
 the past night, and made one or two observations 
 thereon with a brevity almost amounting to curt- 
 ness.
 
 112 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 Maria Addolorata was surprised; but as her face 
 was covered, and her hands were quietly folded 
 before her, Dalrymple could not see that his be 
 haviour had any effect upon her. She did not 
 answer his last remark at all, but quietly bowed 
 her head. 
 
 Then followed the usual serio-comic scene, 
 during which Dalrymple stood turned away from 
 the open door, asking questions of the sick woman, 
 and- listening attentively for her low-spoken an 
 swers. To tell the truth, he judged of her condi 
 tion more from the sound of her voice than from 
 anything else. He had also taught Maria Addo 
 lorata how to feel the pulse ; and she counted the 
 beats while he looked at his watch. His chief 
 anxiety was now for the action of the heart, which 
 had been weakened by a lifetime of unhealthy 
 living, by food inadequate in quality, even when 
 sufficient in quantity, by confinement within doors, 
 and lack of life-giving sunshine, and by all those 
 many causes which tend to reduce the vitality of 
 a cloistered nun. 
 
 When the comedy was over, Maria Addolorata 
 shut the door as usual ; and she and Dalvymple 
 were alone together in the abbess's parlour, as 
 they were every day. The abbess herself could 
 hear that they were talking, but she naturally 
 supposed that they were discussing the details of 
 her condition ; and as she felt that she was really
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 113 
 
 recovering, so far as she could judge, and as almost 
 every day, after Dalrymple had gone, Maria Addo- 
 lorata had some new direction of . his to carry out, 
 the elder lady's suspicions were not aroused. On 
 the contrary, her confidence in the Scotch doctor 
 grew from day to day ; and in the long hours 
 during which she lay thinking over her state and 
 its circumstances, she made plans for his conver 
 sion, in which her brother, the cardinal, bore a 
 principal part. She was grateful to Dalrymple, 
 and it seemed to her that the most proper way 
 of showing her gratitude would be to save his 
 soul, a point of view unusual in the ordinary 
 relations of life. 
 
 On this particular day, Maria Addolorata shut 
 the door, and came forward into the parlour as 
 usual. As usual, too, she sat down in the abbess's 
 own big easy-chair, expecting that Dalrymple 
 would seat himself opposite to her. But he re 
 mained standing, with the evident intention of 
 going away in a few moments. He said a few 
 words about the patient, gave one or two direc 
 tions, and then stood still in silence for a moment. 
 
 Maria Addolorata lifted her head a little, but 
 not enough to show him more than an inch of her 
 face. 
 
 " Have I displeased you, Signor Doctor ? " she 
 asked, in her deep, warm voice. " Have I not 
 carried out your orders ? " 
 
 VOL. I, I
 
 114 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 "On the contrary," answered Dalrymple, with 
 a stiffness which he resented in himself. "It is 
 impossible to be more conscientious than you 
 always are." 
 
 Seeing that he still remained standing, the nun 
 rose to her feet, and waited for him to go. She 
 believed that she was far too proud to detain him, 
 if he wished to shorten the meeting. But some 
 thing hurt her, which she could not understand. 
 
 Dalrymple hesitated a moment, and his lips 
 parted as though he were about to speak. The 
 silence was prolonged only for a moment or two. 
 
 "Good morning, Sister Maria Addolorata," he 
 said suddenly, and bowed. 
 
 "Good morning, Signer Doctor," answered the 
 nun. 
 
 She bent her head very slightly, but a keener 
 observer than Dalrymple was, just then, would have 
 noticed that as she did so, her shoulders moved 
 forward a little, as though her breast were con 
 tracted by some sudden little pain. Dalrymple 
 did not see it. He bowed again, let himself out, 
 and closed the door softly behind him. 
 
 When he was gone, Maria Addolorata sat down 
 in the big easy-chair again, and uncovered her 
 face, doubling her veil back' upon her head, and 
 withdrawing the thick folds from her chin and 
 mouth. Her features were very pale, as she sat 
 staring at the sky through the window, and her
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 115 
 
 eyes fixed themselves in that look which was 
 peculiar to her. Her full white hands strained 
 upon each other a little, bringing the colour to the 
 tips of her fingers. During some minutes she did 
 not move. Then she heard her aunt's voice calling 
 to her hoarsely. She rose at once, and went into 
 the bedroom. The abbess's pale face was very 
 thin and yellow now, as it lay upon the white 
 pillow; the coverlet was drawn up to her chin, 
 and a grimly carved black crucifix hung directly 
 above her head. 
 
 " The doctor did not stay long to-day," she said, 
 in a hollow tone. 
 
 "No, mother," answered the young nun. "He 
 thinks you are doing very well. He wishes you 
 to eat a wing of roast chicken." 
 
 " If I could have a little salad," said the abbess. 
 "Maria," she added suddenly, "you are careful to 
 keep your face covered when you are in the next 
 room, are you not ? " 
 
 "Always." 
 
 " You generally do not raise your veil until you 
 come into this room, after the doctor is gone," said 
 the elder lady. 
 
 " He went so soon, to-day," answered Maria 
 Addolorata, with perfectly innocent truth. "I 
 stayed a moment in the parlour, thinking over his 
 directions, and I lifted my veil when I was alone. 
 It is close to-day."
 
 116 CA8A BBACCIO. 
 
 " Go into the garden, and walk a little," said the 
 abbess. " It will do you good. You are pale." 
 
 If she had felt even a faint uneasiness about her 
 niece's conduct, it was removed by the latter's 
 manner.
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 ONCE more Dalrymple was sitting over his sup 
 per at the table in the vaulted room on the ground 
 floor which Stefanone used as a wine shop. To 
 tell the truth, it was very superior to the ordinary 
 wine shops of Subiaco and had an exceptional 
 reputation. The common people never came there, 
 because Stefanone did not sell his cheap wine at 
 retail, but sent it all to Rome, or took it thither 
 himself for the sake of getting a higher price for 
 it. He always said that he did not keep an inn, 
 and perhaps as much on account of his relations 
 with Gigetto's family, he assumed as far as possible 
 the position of a wine-dealer rather than that of a 
 wine-seller. The distinction, in Italian mountain 
 towns, is very marked. 
 
 " They can have a measure of the best, if they 
 care to pay for it," he said. " If they wish a mouth 
 ful of food, there is what there is. But I am not 
 the village host, and Nanna is not a wine-shop cook, 
 to fry tripe and peel onions for Titius and Caius." 
 
 The old Eoman expression, denoting generally 
 the average public, survives still in polite society, 
 and Stefanone had caught it from Sor Tommaso. 
 117
 
 118 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 Dalrymple was sitting as usual over his supper, 
 by the light of the triple-beaked brass lamp, his 
 measure of wiue beside him, and a beefsteak, which 
 on this occasion was really of beef, before him. 
 Stefanone was absent in Rome, with a load of wine. 
 Sora Nanna sat on Dalrymple's right, industriously 
 knitting in Italian fashion, one of the needles 
 stuck into and supported by a wooden sheath 
 thrust into her waist-band, while she worked off 
 the stitches with the others. Annetta sat opposite 
 the Scotchman, but a little on one side of the lamp, 
 so that she could see his face. 
 
 " Mother," she said suddenly, without lifting her 
 chin from the hand in which it rested, "you do 
 not know anything! This Signor Englishman is 
 making love with a nun in the convent ! Eh 
 what do you think of it ? Only this was wanting. 
 A little more and the lightning will fall upon the 
 convent ! These Protestants ! Oh, these blessed 
 Protestants ! They respect nothing, not even the 
 saints ! " 
 
 " My daughter ! what are you saying ? " 
 
 Sora Nanna's fingers did not pause in their 
 work, nor did her eyes look up, but the deep 
 furrow showed itself in her thick peasant's fore 
 head, and her coarse, hard lips twitched clumsily 
 with the beginning of a smile. 
 
 "What am I saying? The truth. Ask rather 
 of the Signore whether it is not true."
 
 CAS A BBACC10. 119 
 
 "It is silly," said Dalrymple, growing unnatu 
 rally red, and looking up sharply at Annetta, before 
 he took his next mouthful. 
 
 " Look at him, mother ! " laughed the girl. " He 
 is red, red he seems to me a boiled shrimp. Eh, 
 this time I have guessed it! And as for Sister 
 Maria Addolorata, she no longer sees with her 
 eyes ! To-day, when you were carrying in the 
 baskets, you and the other women who went with 
 us, I asked her whether the abbess was satisfied 
 with the new doctor, and she answered that he was 
 a very wise man, much wiser than Sor Tommaso. 
 So I told her that it was a pity, because Sor Tom 
 maso was getting well and would not allow the 
 English doctor to come instead of him much longer. 
 Then she looked at me. By Bacchus, I was afraid. 
 Certain eyes ! Not even a cat when you take away 
 her kittens ! A little more and she would have 
 eaten me. And then her face made itself of mar 
 ble like that face of a woman that is built into 
 the fountain in the piazza. Arch-priest ! What a 
 face ! " 
 
 The girl stared hard at Dalrymple, and her 
 mouth laughed wickedly at his evident embarrass 
 ment, while there was something very different 
 from laughter in her eyes. During the long speech, 
 Sora Nanna had stopped knitting, and she looked 
 from her daughter to the Scotchman with a sort 
 of half-stupid, half-cunning curiosity.
 
 120 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 " But these are sins ! " she exclaimed at last. 
 
 "And what does it matter?" asked the girl. 
 "Does he go to confession? So what does it 
 matter? He keeps the account himself, of his 
 sins. I should not like to have them on my 
 shoulders. But as for Sister Maria Addolorata 
 oh, she ! I told you that she sinned in her throat. 
 Well, the sin is ready, now. What is she waiting 
 for ? For the abbess to die ? Or for Sor Tominaso 
 to get well ? Then she will not see the Signer 
 Englishman any more. It would be better for her. 
 When she does not see him any more, she will 
 knead her pillow with tears, and make her bread of 
 it, to bite and eat. Good appetite, Sister Maria ! " 
 
 "You talk, you talk, and you conclude nothing," 
 observed Sora Nanna. "You have certain thoughts 
 in your head ! And you do not let the Signore say 
 even a word." 
 
 " What can he say ? He will say that it is not 
 true. But then, who will believe him ? I should 
 like to see them a little together. I am sure that 
 she shows him her face, and that it is ' Signer 
 Doctor ' here, and { Dear Signor Doctor ' there, and 
 a thousand gentlenesses. Tell the truth, Signore. 
 She shows you her face." 
 
 "No," said Dalrymple, who had regained his self- 
 possession. " She never shows me her face." 
 
 " What a shame for a Carmelite nun to show her 
 face to a man ! " cried the girl.
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 121 
 
 "But I tell you she is always veiled to her chin," 
 insisted Dalrymple, with perfect truth. 
 
 " Eh ! It is you who say so ! " retorted Annetta. 
 "But then, what can it matter to me ? Make love 
 with a nun, if it goes, Signore. Youth is a flower 
 when it is withered, it is hay, and the beasts eat 
 it." 
 
 "This is true," said Sora Nanna, returning to 
 her knitting. "But do not pay attention to her, 
 Signore. She is stupid. She does not know what 
 she says. Eat, drink, and manage your own affairs. 
 It is better. What can a child understand ? It is 
 like a little dog that sees and barks, without under 
 standing. But you are a much instructed man and 
 have been round the whole world. Therefore you 
 know many things. It seems natural." 
 
 Though Dalrymple was not diffident, as has been 
 said, he was far from vain, on the whole, and in 
 particular he had none of that contemptible van 
 ity which makes a man readily believe that every 
 woman he meets is in love with him. He had not 
 the slightest idea at that time that Annetta, the 
 peasant girl, looked upon him with anything more 
 than the curiosity and vague interest usually 
 bestowed on a foreigner in Italy. 
 
 He was annoyed, however, by what she said this 
 evening, though he was also secretly surprised and 
 delighted. The contradiction is a common one. 
 The miser is half mad with joy on discovering that
 
 122 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 he has much more than he supposed, and bitterly 
 resents, at the same time, any notice which may be 
 taken of the fact by others. 
 
 Annetta did not enjoy his discomfiture and evi 
 dent embarrassment, for she was far more deeply 
 hurt herself than she realized, and every word she 
 had spoken about Maria Addolorata had hurt her, 
 though she had. taken a sort of vague delight in 
 teasing Dalrymple. She relapsed into silence now, 
 alternately wishing that he loved her, and then, 
 that she might kill him. If she could not have 
 his heart, she would be satisfied with his blood. 
 There was a passionate animal longing in the in 
 stinct to have him for herself, even dead, rather 
 than that any other woman should get his love. 
 
 Dalrymple was aware only that the girl's words 
 had annoyed him, while inwardly conscious that if 
 what she said were true, the truth would make a 
 difference in his life. He showed no inclination to 
 talk any more, and finished his supper in a rather 
 morose silence, turning to his book as soon as he 
 had done. Then Gigetto came in with his guitar 
 and sang and talked with the two women. 
 
 But he was restless that night, and did not fall 
 asleep until the moon had set and his window grew 
 dark. And even in his dreams he was restless still, 
 so that when he awoke in the morning he said to 
 himself that he had been foolish in his behaviour 
 towards Maria Addolorata on the previous day.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 123 
 
 He felt tired, too, and his colour was less brilliant 
 than usual. It was Sunday, and he remembered 
 that if he chose he could go in the afternoon to 
 the Benediction in the convent church and hear 
 Maria's voice perhaps. But at the usual hour, 
 just before noon, he went to make his visit to the 
 abbess. 
 
 It was his intention to forget his stiff manner, 
 and to behave as he had always behaved until yes 
 terday. Strange to say, however, he felt a con 
 straint coming upon him as soon as he was in the 
 nun's presence. She received him as usual, there 
 was the usual comic scene at the abbess's door, 
 and, as every day, the two were alone together after 
 her door was shut. 
 
 "Are you ill?" asked Maria Addolorata, after a 
 moment's silence which, short as it was, both felt 
 to be awkward. 
 
 Dalrymple was taken by surprise. The tone in 
 which she had spoken was cold and distant rather 
 than expressive of any concern for his welfare, but 
 he did not think of that. He only realized that 
 his manner must seem to her very unusual, since 
 she asked such a question. An Italian would have 
 observed that his own face was pale, and would 
 have told her that he was dying of love. 
 
 "No, I am not ill," answered the Scotchman, 
 simply, and in his most natural tone of voice. 
 
 " Then what is the matter with you since yester-
 
 124 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 day?" asked Maria Addolorata, less coldly, and as 
 though she were secretly amused. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter at least, nothing 
 that I could explain to you." 
 
 She sat down in the big easy-chair and, as for 
 merly, he took his seat opposite to her. 
 
 "There is something," she insisted, speaking 
 thoughtfully. "You cannot deceive a woman, 
 Signer Doctor." 
 
 Dalryinple smiled and looked at her veiled head. 
 
 " You said the other day that I was not a man, 
 but a doctor," he answered. "I suppose I might 
 answer that you are not a woman, but a nun." 
 
 "And is not a nun a woman?" asked Maria 
 Addolorata, and he knew that she was smiling, too. 
 
 "You would not forgive me if I answered you," 
 he said. 
 
 "Who knows? I might be obliged- to, since I am 
 obliged to meet you every day. It may be a sin, 
 but I am curious." 
 
 "Shall I tell you?" 
 
 As though instinctively, Maria was silent for a 
 moment, and turned her veiled face towards the 
 abbess's door. But Dalrymple needed no such 
 warning to lower his voice. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, and under her veil she 
 could feel that her eyes were growing deep and the 
 pupils wide and dark, and she knew that she had 
 done wrong.
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 125 
 
 " How should ! know whether you are a saint or 
 only a woman, since I have never seen your face?" 
 he asked. " I shall never know for in a few days 
 Doctor Taddei will be well again, and you will not 
 need my services." 
 
 He saw the quick tightening of one hand upon 
 the other, and the slight start of the head, and in 
 a flash he knew that all Annetta had told him was 
 true. The silence that followed seemed longer than 
 the awkward pause which had preceded the conver 
 sation. 
 
 " It cannot be so soon, " she said in a very low 
 tone. 
 
 "It may be to-morrow," he answered, and to his 
 own astonishment his voice almost broke in his 
 throat, and he felt that his own hands were twist 
 ing each other, as though he were in pain. "I 
 shall die without seeing you," he added almost 
 roughly. 
 
 Again there was a short silence in the still room. 
 
 Suddenly, with quick movements of both hands 
 at once, Maria Addolorata threw back the veil from 
 her face, and drew away the folds that covered her 
 mouth. 
 
 " There, see me ! " she exclaimed. " Look at me 
 well this once ! " 
 
 Her face was as white as marble, and her dark 
 eyes had a wild and startled look in them, as 
 though she saw the world for the first time. A
 
 126 CA 8 A BEACCIO. 
 
 ringlet of red-gold hair had escaped from the bands 
 of white that crossed her forehead in an even line 
 and were drawn down straight on either side, for 
 in the quick movement she had made she had loos 
 ened the pin that held them together under her 
 chin, and had freed the dazzling throat down to 
 the high collar. 
 
 Dalrymple's pale, bright blue eyes caught fire, 
 and he looked at her with all his being, at her face, 
 her throat, her eyes, the ringlet of her hair. He 
 breathed audibly, with parted lips, between his 
 clenched teeth. 
 
 Gradually, as he looked, he saw the red blush 
 rise from the throat to the cheeks, from the cheeks 
 to the forehead, and the marble grew more beauti 
 ful with womanly life. Then, all at once, he 
 saw the hot tears welling up in her eyes, and in an 
 instant the vision was gone. With a passionate 
 movement she had covered her face with the veil, 
 and throwing herself sideways against the high 
 back of the chair, she pressed the dark stuff still 
 closer to her eyes and mouth and cheeks. Her 
 whole body shook convulsively, and a moment later 
 she was sobbing, not audibly, but visibly, as though 
 her heart were breaking. 
 
 Dalrymple was again taken by surprise. He had 
 been so completely lost in the utterly selfish con 
 templation of her beauty that he had been very far 
 from realizing what she herself must have felt as
 
 "She had covered her face with the veil." Vol. I., p. 126,
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 127 
 
 soon as she appreciated what she had done. He at 
 once accused himself of having looked too rudely 
 at her, but at the same time he was himself too 
 much disturbed to argue the matter. Quite in 
 stinctively he rose to his feet and tried to take one 
 of her hands from her veil, touching it comfort 
 ingly. But she made a wild gesture, as though to 
 drive him away. 
 
 " Go ! " she cried in a low and broken voice, be 
 tween her sobs. "Go! Go quickly!" 
 
 She could not say more for her sobbing, but he 
 did not obey her. He only drew back a little and 
 watched her, all his blood on fire from the touch 
 of her soft white hand. 
 
 She stifled her sobs in her veil, and gradually 
 grew more calm. She even arranged the veil itself 
 a little better, her face still turned away towards 
 the back of the chair. 
 
 "Maria! Maria!" The abbess's voice was call 
 ing her, hoarsely and almost desperately, from the 
 next room. 
 
 She started and sat up straight, listening. Then 
 the cry was heard again, more desperate, less loud. 
 With a quick skill which seemed marvellous in 
 Dalrymple's eyes, Maria adjusted her veil almost 
 before she had sprung to her feet. 
 
 " Wait ! " she said. " Something is the matter ! " 
 
 She was at the bedroom door in an instant, and 
 in an instant more she was at her aunt's bedside.
 
 128 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 "Maria I am dying," said the abbess's voice 
 faintly, as she felt the nun's arm under her head. 
 
 Dalrymple heard the words, and did not hesitate 
 as he hastily felt for something in his pocket. 
 
 " Come ! " cried Maria Addolorata. 
 
 But he was already there, on the other side of 
 the bed, pouring something between the sick lady's 
 lips. 
 
 It was fortunate that he was there at that mo 
 ment. He had indeed anticipated the possibility 
 of a sudden failure in the action of the heart, and 
 he never came to the convent without a small sup 
 ply of a powerful stimulant of his own invention. 
 The liquid, however, was of such a nature that he 
 did not like to leave the use of it to Maria Addolo- 
 rata's discretion, for he was aware that she might 
 easily be mistaken in the symptoms of the collapse 
 which would really require its use. 
 
 The abbess swallowed a sufficient quantity of it, 
 and Dalrymple allowed her head to lie again upon 
 the pillow. She looked almost as though she were 
 dead. Her eyes were turned up, and her jaw had 
 dropped. Maria Addolorata believed that all was 
 over. 
 
 " She is dead," she said. " Let us leave her in 
 peace." 
 
 It is a very ancient custom among Italians to 
 withdraw as soon as a dying person is unconscious, 
 if not even before the supreme moment.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 129 
 
 " She will probably live through this," answered 
 Dalrymple, shaking his head. 
 
 Neither he nor the nun spoke again for a long 
 time. Little by little, the abbess revived under 
 the influence of the stimulant, the heart beat less 
 faintly, and the mouth slowly closed, while the 
 eyelids shut themselves tightly over the upturned 
 eyes. The normal regular breathing began again, 
 and the crisis was over. 
 
 "It is passed," said Dalrymple. "It will not 
 come again to-day. We can leave her now, for she 
 will sleep." 
 
 " Yes," said the abbess herself. " Let me sleep." 
 Her votee was faint, but the words were distinctly 
 articulated. 
 
 Then she opened her eyes and looked about her 
 quite naturally. Her glance rested on Dalrymple's 
 face. Suddenly realizing that she was not veiled, 
 she drew the coverlet up over her face. It is a 
 peculiarity of such cases, that the patient returns 
 almost immediately to ordinary consciousness when 
 the moment of danger is past. 
 
 " Go ! " she said, with more energy than might 
 have been expected. "This is a religious house. 
 You must not be here." 
 
 Dalrymple retired into the parlour again, shut 
 ting the door behind him, and waited for Maria 
 Addolorata, for it was now indispensable that he 
 should give her directions for the night. During
 
 130 CAS A BE AC CIO. 
 
 the few minutes which passed while he was alone, 
 he stood looking out of the window. The excite 
 ment of the last half-hour had cut off from his 
 present state of mind the emotion he had felt 
 before the abbess's cry for help, but had not 
 decreased the impression it had left. While he 
 was helping the sick lady there had not been 
 one instant in which he had not felt that there 
 was more than the life of a half -saintly old woman 
 in the balance, and that her death meant the end 
 of his meetings with Maria Addolorata. Annetta's 
 words came back to him, ' she will knead her 
 pillow with tears and make her bread of it.' 
 
 Several minutes passed, and the door opened 
 softly and closed again. Maria Addolorata came 
 up to him, where he stood by the window. She 
 did not speak for a moment, but he saw that her 
 hand was pressed to her side. 
 
 " I have spent a bad half-hour," she said at last, 
 with something like a gasp. 
 
 "It is the worst half-hour I ever spent in my 
 life," answered Dalrymple. " I thought it was all 
 over," he added. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I thought it was all over." 
 
 He could hear his heart beating in his ears. He 
 could almost hear hers. His hand went out toward 
 her, cold and unsteady, but it fell to his side again 
 almost instantly. But for the heart-beats, it seemed 
 to him that there was an appalling stillness in the
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 131 
 
 air of the quiet room. His manly face grew very 
 pale. He slowly bit his lip and looked out of the 
 window. An enormous temptation was upon him. 
 He knew that if she moved to leave his side he 
 should take her and hold her. There was a tiny 
 drop of blood on his lip now. Something in him 
 made him hope against himself that she would 
 speak, that she would say some insignificant dry 
 words. But every inch of his strong fibre and 
 every ounce of his hot blood hoped that she would 
 move, instead of speaking. 
 
 She sighed, and the sigh was broken by a quick- 
 drawn breath. Slowly Dalrymple turned his white 
 face and gleaming eyes to her veiled head. Still 
 she neither spoke nor moved. He, in memory, saw 
 her face, her mouth, and her eyes through the thick 
 stuff that hid them. The silence became awful to 
 him. His hands opened and shut convulsively. 
 
 She heard his breath and she saw the uncertain 
 shadow of his hand, moving on the black and white 
 squares of the pavement. She made a slight, short 
 movement towards him and then stepped suddenly 
 back, overcoming the temptation to go to him. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 He uttered the single word with a low, fierce cry. 
 In an instant his arms were around her, pressing 
 her, lifting her, straining her, almost bruising her. 
 In an instant his lips were kissing a face whiter 
 than his own, eyes that flamed like summer light-
 
 132 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 ning between his kisses, lips crushed and hurt by 
 his, but still not kissed enough, hands that were 
 raised to resist, but lingered to be kissed in turn, 
 lest anything should be lost. 
 
 A little splintering crash, the sound of a glass 
 falling upon a stone floor in the next room, broke 
 the stillness. Dalrymple's arms relaxed, and the 
 two stood for one moment facing one another, pale, 
 with fire in their eyes and hearts beating more 
 loudly than before. Dalrymple raised his hand to 
 his forehead, as though he were dazed, and made 
 an uncertain step in the direction of the door. 
 Maria raised her white hands towards him, and her 
 eyelids drooped, even while she looked into his 
 face. 
 
 He kissed her once more with a kiss in which 
 all other kisses seemed to meet and live and die a 
 lingering, sweet death. She sank into the deep 
 old easy-chair, and when she looked up, he was 
 gone.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IT rained during the afternoon, and Dalrymple 
 sat in his small laboratory, among his books and 
 the simple apparatus he used for his experiments. 
 His little window was closed, and the southwest 
 wind drove the shower against the clouded panes 
 of glass, so that the rain came through the ill-fitted 
 strips of lead which joined them, and ran down in 
 small streams to the channel in the stone sill, 
 whence the water found its way out through a hole 
 running through the wall. He sat in his rush-bot 
 tomed chair, sideways by the deal table, one long 
 leg crossed over the other. His hand lay on an 
 open book, and his fingers occasionally tapped the 
 page impatiently, while his eyes were fixed on the 
 window, watching the driving rain. 
 
 He was not thinking, for he could not think. 
 Over and over again the scene of the morning came 
 back to him and sent the hot blood rushing to his 
 throat. He tried to reflect, indeed, and to see 
 whether what he had done was to have any conse 
 quences for him, or was to be left behind in his 
 life, like a lovely view seen from a carriage window 
 on a swift journey, gone before it is half seen, and 
 133
 
 134 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 never to be seen again, except in dreams. But he 
 was utterly unable to look forward and reason 
 about the future. Everything dragged him back, 
 up the steep ascent to the convent, through the 
 arched ways and vaulted corridors, to the room in 
 which he had passed the supreme moments of his 
 life. The only distinct impression of the future 
 was the strong desire to feel again what he had 
 felt that day; to feel it again and again, and 
 always, as long as feeling could last; to stretch 
 out his hands and take, to close them and hold, to 
 make his, indubitably, what had been but question 
 ably his for an instant, to get the one thing worth 
 having, for himself, and only for himself. For the 
 passion of a strong man is loving and taking, and 
 the passion of a good woman is loving and giving. 
 Dalrymple reasoned well enough, later, too well, 
 perhaps, but during those hours he spent alone on 
 that day, there was no power of reasoning in him. 
 The world was the woman he loved, and the world's 
 orbit was but the circle of his clasping arms. Be 
 yond them was chaos, without form and void, 
 clouded as the rain-streaked panes of his little 
 window. 
 
 He looked at his watch more than once. At last 
 he rose, threw a cloak over his shoulders and went 
 out, locking the door of the little laboratory behind 
 him as he always did, and thrusting the unwieldy 
 key into his pocket.
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 135 
 
 He climbed the hill to the convent, taking the 
 short cut through the narrow lanes. The rain had 
 almost ceased, and the wet mist that blew round 
 the corners of the dark houses was pleasant in his 
 face. But he scarcely knew what he saw and felt 
 on his way. He reached the convent church and 
 went in, and stood by one of the pillars near the 
 door. 
 
 It was a small church, built with a great choir 
 for the nuns behind the high altar ; from each side 
 of the latter a high wooden screen extended to the 
 walls, completely cutting off the space. It was 
 dark, too, especially in such weather, and almost 
 deserted, save for a number of old women who 
 knelt on the damp marble pavement, some leaning 
 against the backs of chairs, some resting one arm 
 upon the plastered bases of the yellow marble 
 columns. There were many lights on the high 
 altar. Two acolytes, rough-headed boys of Su- 
 biaco, knelt within the altar rail, dressed in 
 black cassocks and clean linen cottas. Two priests 
 and a young deacon sat side by side on the right 
 of the altar, with small black books in their htinds. 
 The nuns were chanting, unseen in the choir. No 
 one noticed Dalrymple, wrapped in his cloak, as 
 he leaned against the pillar near the door. His 
 head was a little inclined, involuntarily respectful 
 to ceremonies he neither believed in nor under 
 stood, but which had in them the imposing element
 
 136 CAS A BEACCW. 
 
 of devout earnestness. Yet his eyes were raised 
 and looked up from under his brows, steadily and 
 watchfully, for he knew that Maria Addolorata 
 was behind the screen, and from the first moment 
 of entering the church it seemed to him that he 
 could distinguish her voice from the rest. 
 
 He knew that it was hers, though he had never 
 heard her sing. There was in all those sweet, 
 colourless tones one tone that made ringing har 
 monies in his strong heart. Amongst all those 
 mingling accents, there was one accent that 
 touched his soul. Amidst the echoes that died 
 softly away under the dim arches, there was one 
 echo that died not, but rang on and on in his ears. 
 There was a voice not like other voices there, 
 nor like any he had ever heard. Many were 
 strong and sweet; this one was not sweet and 
 strong only, but alive with a divine life, winged 
 with divine wings, essential of immortality, touch 
 ing beyond tears, passionate as the living, breath 
 ing, sighing, dying world, grand as a flood of 
 light, sad as the twilight of gods, full as a great 
 water swinging to the tide of the summer's moon, 
 fine-drawn as star-rays a voice of gold. 
 
 As Dalrymple stood there in the shadow, he 
 heard it singing to him and telling him all that 
 he had not been told in words, all that he felt, 
 and more also. For there was in it the passion 
 of the woman, and the passionate remorse of the
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 137 
 
 nun, the towering love of Maria Braccio, woman 
 and princess, and the deep despair of Maria 
 Addolorata, nun and sinner, unfaithful spouse of 
 the Lord Christ, accused and self-accusing, self- 
 wrongedj. self-judged, but condemned of God and 
 foretasting the ultimate tragedy that is eternal 
 the tragedy of supreme hell. 
 
 The man who stood there knew that it was his 
 doing, and the burden of his deeds bowed him 
 bodily as he stood. But still he listened, and, as 
 she sung, he watched her lips in the dark, inner 
 mirror of sin's memory, and they drew him on. 
 
 Little by little, he heard only her voice, and the 
 others chanted bub faintly as from an infinite dis 
 tance. And then, not in his thought, but in deed, 
 she was singing alone, and the words of, ' Salutaris 
 Hostia,' sounded in the dim church as they had 
 never sounded before, nor could ever sound again, 
 the appeal of a lost soul's agony to God, the glory 
 of golden voice, the accent of transcendent genius, 
 the passion, the strength, the despair, of an ancient 
 race. 
 
 In the dark church the coarse, sad peasant 
 women bowed themselves upon the pavement. 
 One of them sobbed aloud and beat her breast. 
 Angus Dalrymple kneeled upon one knee and 
 pressed his brow against the foot of the pillar, 
 kneeling neither to God, nor to the Sacred Host, 
 nor to man's belief in Heaven or He'll, neither
 
 138 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 praying nor blaspheming, neither hoping nor 
 dreading, but spell-bound upon a wrack of torture 
 that was heart-breaking delight, his senses torn 
 and strained to the utmost of his strong endur 
 ance, to the very scream of passion, his soul cruci 
 fied upon the exquisite loveliness of his sin. 
 
 Then all was still for an instant. Again there 
 was a sound of voices, as the nuns sang in chorus 
 the ' Tautum Ergo.' But the voice of voices was 
 silent among them. The solemn Benediction 
 blessed the just and the unjust alike. The short 
 verses and responses of the priests broke the air 
 that still seemed alive and trembling. 
 
 Dalrymple rose slowly, and wrapped his cloak 
 about him. Above the footsteps of the women 
 going out of the church, he could hear the soft 
 sound of all the nuns moving together as they 
 left the choir. He knew that she was with them, 
 and he stood motionless in his place till silence 
 descended as a curtain between him and what had 
 been. Then, with bent head, he went out into the 
 rain that poured through the dim twilight.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THEY were together on the following day. The 
 abbess was better, and as yet there had been no 
 return of the syncope which Dalrymple dreaded. 
 
 Contrary to her habit, Maria Addolorata sat on a 
 high chair by the table, her head veiled and turned 
 away, her chin supported in her hand. Dalrymple 
 was seated not far from her, leaning forward, and 
 trying to see her face, silent, and in a dangerous 
 mood. She had refused to let him come near her, 
 and even to raise her veil. When she spoke, her 
 voice was full of a profound sadness that irritated 
 him instead of touching him, for his nerves were 
 strung to passion and out of tune with regret. 
 
 " The sin of it ; the deadly sin ! " she said. 
 
 "There is no sin in it," he answered; but she 
 shook her veiled head. 
 
 And there was silence again, as on the day 
 before, but the stillness was of another kind. It 
 was not the awful lull which goes before the burst 
 ing of the storm, when the very air seems to start 
 at the fall of a leaf for fear lest it be already the 
 thunder-clap. It was more like the noiseless rising 
 of the hungry flood that creeps up round the 
 139
 
 140 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 doomed house, wherein is desperate, starving life, 
 higher and higher, inch by inch the flood of ris 
 ing fate. 
 
 " You say that there is no sin in it," she said, 
 after a time. " You say it, but you do not think 
 it. You are a man you have honour to lose 
 you understand that, at least " 
 
 "You are a woman, and you have humanity's 
 right to be free. It is an honourable right. You 
 gave it up when you took that veil, not knowing 
 what it was that you gave up. You have done no 
 wrong. You have done nothing that any loving 
 maiden need be ashamed of. I kissed you, for you 
 could not help yourself. That is the monstrous 
 crime which you say is to be punished with eternal 
 damnation. It is monstrous that you should think 
 so. It is blasphemy to say that God made woman 
 to lead a life of suffering and daily misery, chained 
 to a cross which it is agony to look at, and shame 
 to break from." 
 
 " Go leave me. You are tempting me again." 
 She spoke away from him, not changing her posi 
 tion. 
 
 " If truth is temptation, I am tempting you, for 
 I am showing you the truth. The truth is this. 
 "When you were almost a child they began to bend 
 you and break you in the way they meant you to 
 grow. You bent, but you were not broken. Your 
 nature is too strong. There is a life of your own
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 141 
 
 in you. It was against your will, and when you 
 were just grown up, they buried you, your beauty, 
 your youth, your fresh young heart, your voice and 
 your genius for it is nothing less. It was all done 
 with deliberate intention for the glory of your 
 family, blasphemously asserted to be the glory of 
 God. It was pressed upon you, before you knew 
 what you were doing, and made pleasant to you 
 before you knew what it all meant. Your cross 
 was cushioned for you and your crown 'of thorns 
 was gilded. They made the seat under the canopy 
 seem a seat in heaven. They even made you 
 believe that the management of two or three score 
 suffering women was government and power. It 
 seemed a great thing to be abbess, did it not ? " 
 
 Maria Addolorata bent her veiled head slowly 
 twice or three times, in a heavy-he artjsd way. 
 
 "They made you believe all that," continued 
 Dalrymple, with cold earnestness, " and much more 
 besides a great deal of which I know little, I 
 suppose the life to come, and saintship, and the 
 glories of heaven. You have found out what it is 
 all vrorth. We have found it out together. And 
 they frightened you with hell. Do you know what 
 hell is? A life without love, when one knows 
 what love can mean. I am not eloquent ; I wish I 
 were. But I am plain, and I can tell you the 
 truth." 
 
 " It is not the truth," answered the nun, slowly.
 
 142 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 "You tell me it is, to tempt me. I cannot drive 
 you away by force. Will you not go ? I cannot 
 cry out for help it would ruin me and you. 
 Will you not leave me ? But for God's grace, I 
 am at your mercy, and there is little grace for me, 
 a sinner." 
 
 "No, I will not go away," said Dalrymple, and 
 it seemed to Maria that his voice was the voice of 
 her fate. 
 
 " Then God have mercy ! " she cried, in a low 
 tone, and as her head sank forward, it was her 
 forehead that rested in her right hand, instead of 
 her chin. 
 
 " Love is more merciful than God," he answered. 
 
 There was a sudden softness in his voice which 
 she had never heard, not even yesterday. Rising, 
 he stole near to her, and standing, bent down and 
 leaned upon the table by her side and spoke close 
 to her ear. But he did not touch her. She could 
 feel his breath through her veil when he spoke 
 again. It was vital and fierce, and softly hot, like 
 the breathing of a powerful wild beast. 
 
 " You are my God," he said. " I worship you, 
 and adore you. But I must have you for mine 
 always. I would rather kill you, and have no God, 
 than lose you alive. Come with me. You are 
 free. You can get through the garden at night 
 with good horses we can reach the sea to-morrow. 
 There is an English ship of war at anchor in Civita
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 143 
 
 Vecchia. The officers are my friends. Before to 
 morrow night we can be safe married happy. 
 No one will know no one will follow us. Maria 
 come come come ! " 
 
 His voice sank to a vibrating whisper as he 
 repeated the word again and again, closer and 
 closer to her ear. Her hands had dropped from 
 her forehead and lay upon the table. With bent 
 head she listened. 
 
 " Come, my darling," he continued, fast and low. 
 "I have a beautiful home, my father's home, my 
 mother's your laws and vows are nothing to 
 them. You shall be honoured, loved ah, dear! 
 adored, worshipped you do not know what we 
 will do for you, to fill your life with sweet things. 
 All your life, Maria, from to-morrow. Instead of 
 pain and penance and everlasting suffering and 
 weariness, you shall have all that the world holds 
 of love and peace and flowers. And you shall sing 
 your whole heart out when you will, and have 
 music to play with from year's beginning to year's 
 end and year's end again. Sweet, let me tell you 
 how I love you how you are alive in every drop 
 of my blood, beating through me like living fire, 
 through heart and soul and head and hand " 
 
 With a quick movement she pressed her palms 
 against her veil upon her ears to shut out the 
 sound of his words. She rocked herself a little, as 
 though the pain were almost greater than she could
 
 144 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 bear. But his hands moved too, stealthily, strongly, 
 as a tiger's velvet feet, with a vibration all through 
 them, to the very ends of his fingers. For he was 
 in earnest. And the arm went softly round her, 
 and closed gently upon her as her figure swayed in 
 her chair ; and the other sought hers, and found it 
 cold as ice and trembling, and not strong to stop 
 her hearing. And again she listened. 
 
 Wild and incoherent words fell from his lips, hot 
 and low, with no reason in them but the overwhelm 
 ing reason of love itself. For he was not an elo 
 quent man, and now he took no thought of what he 
 said. He was far too natural to be eloquent, and 
 far too deeply stirred to care for the shape his love 
 took in speech. There was in his words the strong 
 rush of out-bursting truth which even the worst 
 passion has when it is real to the roots. Words 
 terrible and gentle, blasphemous and devout, wove 
 themselves into a new language such as Maria 
 Addolorata had never heard, nor dared to think of 
 hearing. But he dared everything, to tell her, to hold 
 her, against God and devil, heaven and earth, and all 
 mankind. And he promised all he had, and all 
 that was not his to promise nor to give, rending 
 her beliefs to shreds, trampling on the broken 
 fragments of all she had worshipped, tearing her 
 chains link from link and scattering them like 
 straw down the storm of passionate contempt. And 
 then, again, pouring out love, and more love, and
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 145 
 
 love again, as a stream of liquid fire let loose to 
 flood all it meets with dazzling destruction and not 
 death. 
 
 It is not every woman that knows what it is to 
 be so loved and to listen to such words, so spoken. 
 Those who have heard and felt can understand, but 
 not the rest. Gradually as he spoke, her veiled 
 face was drawn toward his ; gradually her hand 
 raised the thick veil and drew it back ; and again a 
 little, and the hand that had struggled long and 
 silently against his, lay still at last, and the face 
 that had appealed in vain to Heaven, hid itself 
 against the heart of the strong man. 
 
 " The Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul ! " 
 she softly prayed. 
 
 " I love you ! " whispered Dalrymple, folding her 
 to him with both his arms, and pressing his lips to 
 her head. "That is all the world holds. That is 
 all the Heaven there is, and we have it for our 
 own." 
 
 But presently she drew back from him, clinging 
 to him with her hands as though to hold him, and 
 yet separating from him and looking up into his 
 face. 
 
 " And to-morrow ? " she said, with a despairing 
 question in her tone. 
 
 " We will go away to-night," he answered, " and 
 to-morrow will be ours, too, and all the to-morrows 
 after that." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 But she shook her head, and her hands loosened 
 their hold upon his arms, still lingering on his 
 sleeves. 
 
 " And leave her to die ? " she asked, with a quick 
 glance at the abbess's door. 
 
 Then she looked at him, with something of 
 sudden fear as she met his eyes again. And 
 almost instantly she turned from him, and threw 
 herself forward upon the table as she sat. 
 
 " The sin, the deadly sin ! " she moaned. " Oh, 
 the horror of it all the sin, the shame, the dis 
 grace ! That is the worst to bear the shame ! 
 The undying shame of it ! " 
 
 Dalrymple's brows bent themselves in a heavy 
 frown, for he was in no temper to be thwarted, 
 desperate as the risk might be. For himself, he 
 knew that he was setting his life on the chances, 
 if she consented, and that life would not be worth 
 having if she refused. He knew well enough that 
 they must almost certainly be pursued, and that 
 there would be little hesitation about shooting him 
 or cutting his throat if they were caught and if he 
 resisted, as he knew that he should. He had been 
 in love with her for days. The last twenty-four 
 hours had made him desperate. And a desperate 
 man is not to be played with, more especially if 
 he chance to have any Highland blood in his veins. 
 
 " What do you believe in most ? " he asked sud 
 denly and almost brutally.
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 147 
 
 She turned, startled, and looked him in the face. 
 
 "Because, if you believe in God, as I suppose 
 you do, I take God to witness that I shall be a 
 dead man this night, unless you promise to go with 
 me." 
 
 She stared, and turned white to the lips, as he 
 had never seen her turn pale before. She leaned 
 forward, gazing into his eyes and breathing hard. 
 
 "You do not mean that," she said, as though 
 trying hard to convince herself. 
 
 " I mean it," he answered slowly, pale himself, 
 and knowing what he said. 
 
 She leaned nearer to him and took his arms with 
 her hands, for she could not speak. The terrible 
 question was in his eyes. 
 
 "You would kill yourself, if I refused if I 
 would not go with you?" Still she could not 
 believe him. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. 
 
 Once more the room was very still, as the two 
 looked into one another's eyes. But Maria Addo- 
 lorata said nothing. The frown deepened on Dal- 
 rymple's face, and his strong mouth was drawn, as 
 a man draws in his lips at the moment of meeting 
 death. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said, gently loosening himself 
 from her hold. 
 
 Her hands dropped and she turned half round, 
 following him as he went towards the door. His
 
 148 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 hand was almost on the latch. He did not turn. 
 But as he heard her swift feet behind him, he bent 
 his head a little. Her arms went round his throat, 
 reaching up to his great height. 
 
 " No ! No ! " she cried, drawing his head down 
 to her. 
 
 But he took her by the wrists and held her 
 away from him at his arms' length. 
 
 "Are you in earnest?" he asked fiercely. "If 
 you play with me any more, you shall die, too." 
 
 " But not to-day ! " she answered imploringly. 
 "Not to-night! Give me time a day a little 
 while " 
 
 "To lose you? No. I have been near losing 
 you. I know what it means. Make up your mind. 
 Yes, or no." 
 
 "To-night? But how? There is not time 
 these clothes I wear " 
 
 She turned her head distractedly to one side and 
 the other as she spoke, while he held her wrists. 
 Dalrymple saw that there was reason in the objec 
 tions she made. So dangerous a flight could not be 
 undertaken without some preparation. He loosed 
 her hands and began to pace the room, concentrat 
 ing his mind upon the details. She watched him 
 in silence, leaning against the back of the easy- 
 chair. Then he stopped just before her. 
 
 " My cloak would come down to your feet," he 
 said, measuring her height with his eyes. " I have
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 149 
 
 a plaid which would cover your head. Once on 
 horseback, no one would notice anything. Can 
 you ride ? " 
 
 "No. I never learned." 
 
 "That is unlucky. But we can manage it. 
 The main thing would be to get a long start if 
 possible that you should not be missed to 
 get away just at the beginning of the longest 
 time during which the nuns would not expect 
 to see you. Where is your own room ? Is it 
 near this ? " 
 
 Maria Addolorata told him, and explained the 
 position of the balcony with the steps leading 
 down into the garden. He asked her who kept 
 the key of the postern. It was in the possession 
 of the gardener, who took it away with him at 
 night, but the lock was on the inside, and uncov 
 ered, as old Italian locks are. By raising the 
 curved spring one could push back the bolt. There 
 was a handle on the latter, for that purpose. 
 There would be no difficulty about getting out, 
 nor about letting Dalrymple in, provided that the 
 night were dark. 
 
 "The moon is almost full," said Dalrymple, 
 thoughtfully, and he began to walk up and down 
 again. " Never mind. It must be to-morrow night. 
 In your dark dress, when the sisters are asleep, if 
 you keep in the shadow along the wall, there is not 
 the slightest risk. I will be waiting for you on the
 
 150 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 other side of the gate with my cloak and plaid. 
 I will have the horses ready, a little higher up. 
 There is a good mule path which goes down into 
 the valley on that side. You have only to reach 
 the gate and let yourself out. It is very easy. 
 Tell me at what time to be waiting." 
 
 Maria leaned heavily upon the chair, with bent 
 head. 
 
 "I cannot do it oh, I cannot!" she said de 
 spairingly. "The shame of it! To be the talk 
 of Rome the scandal of the day a disgrace to 
 my father and mother ! " 
 
 Dalrymple frowned, and biting his lip, he struck 
 hie clenched fist softly with the palm of his hand, 
 making a few quick steps backward and forward. 
 He stopped suddenly and looked at her with dan 
 gerous eyes. 
 
 " I have told you," he said. " I will not repeat 
 it. You must choose." 
 
 " Oh, you cannot be in earnest " 
 
 " You shall see. It is plain enough," he added, 
 with an accent of scorn. " You are more afraid of 
 a little talk and gossip in Rome, than of being told 
 to-morrow morning that I died in the night. That 
 is Italian courage, I suppose." 
 
 She hung her head for a moment. Then, as she 
 heard his footsteps, she threw her veil back and 
 saw that he was going towards the door without 
 a word.
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 151 
 
 "You are cruel/' she said, half catching her 
 breath. " You know that you make me suffer 
 that I cannot live without you." 
 
 "I shall certainly not live without you/' he 
 answered. " I mean to have you at any price, or 
 I will die in the attempt to get you." 
 
 The words have a melodramatic look on paper. 
 But he spoke them not only with his lips, but with 
 his whole self. They were not out of keeping with 
 his nature. There is no more desperate blood in 
 the world's veins than that of the Celt when he is 
 driven to bay or exasperated by passion. In him 
 the reckless fatalism of the Asiatic is blended with 
 the cool daring of the northerner. 
 
 Maria Addolorata had little experience of the 
 world or of men, but she had the hereditary in 
 stincts of her sex, and as she looked at Dalrymple 
 she recognized in him the man who would do what 
 he said, or forfeit his life in trying to do it. There 
 is no mistaking the truth about such men, at such 
 moments. 
 
 " I believe you would," she said, and she felt 
 pride in saying it. 
 
 Her own life was in the balance. She bent her 
 head again. Her temples were throbbing, and it 
 was hard to think at all connectedly. 
 
 "I want your answer," he said, still standing 
 near the door." "Yes or no for to-morrow 
 night ? "
 
 152 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 "I cannot live without you," she answered 
 slowly, and still looking down. "I must go." 
 
 But she did not meet his eyes, for she knew that 
 she was wavering still, and almost as uncertain as 
 before. All at once Dalrymple's manner changed. 
 He came quietly to her side and took one of her 
 hands, which hung idly over the back of the chair, 
 in both of his. 
 
 " You must be in earnest, as I am, my dear," he 
 said, very calmly and gently. " You must not play 
 with a man's life and heart, as though they were 
 worth nothing but play. You called me cruel, 
 dear, a moment ago. But you are more cruel than 
 I, for I do not hesitate." 
 
 "I must go," she repeated, still avoiding his 
 look. "Yes, I must go. I should die without 
 you." 
 
 " But to-morrow when I come, you will hesitate 
 again," he said, still speaking very quietly. "I 
 must be sure. You must give me some promise, 
 something more than you have given me yet." 
 
 She looked up with startled eyes. 
 
 " You do not believe me ? " she asked. " What 
 shall I do ? I I promise ! You yourself have 
 never said that you promised." 
 
 " Does it need that ?." He pressed the hand he 
 held, with softly increasing strength, between his 
 palms. 
 
 "No," she answered, looking at him. "I can
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 153 
 
 see it. You will do what you say. I have prom 
 ised, too." 
 
 He gazed incredulously into her face. 
 
 " Do you doubt me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Have I not reason to doubt ? You change your 
 mind easily. I do not blame you. But how am I 
 to believe ? " 
 
 She grew impatient of his unbelief. Yet as he 
 pressed her hand, the power he had over her in 
 creased with every second. 
 
 " But I will, I will ! " she cried, in a low voice. 
 " And still you doubt I see it in your eyes. 
 Have I not promised ? What more can I do ? " 
 
 " I do not know," he answered. " But you must 
 make me believe you." The strength of his eyes 
 seemed to be forcing something from her. 
 
 " I say it I promise it I swear it ! Do I not 
 love you ? Am I not giving my soul for you ? 
 Have I not given it already ? What more can I 
 do or say ? " 
 
 " I do not- know," he answered a second time, 
 holding her with his eyes. "I must believe you 
 before I go." 
 
 He spoke honestly and earnestly, not meaning 
 to exasperate her, searching in her look for what 
 was unmistakably in his own. His hands shook, 
 not weakly, as they held hers. His piercing eyes 
 seemed to see through and through her. She 
 trembled all over, and the colour rose to her face,
 
 154 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 more in despair of convincing him than in a blush 
 of shame. 
 
 "Believe me!" she said, imperiously, and her 
 eyelids contracted with the effort of her will. 
 
 But he said nothing. She felt that he was 
 immeasurably stronger than she. But just then, 
 he was not more desperate. There was a short, 
 intense silence. Her face grew pale and was set 
 with the fatal look she sometimes had. 
 
 "I pledge you with my blood!" she said sud 
 denly. 
 
 Her eyes did not waver from his, but she 
 wrenched her right hand from him, and before 
 he could take it again, her even teeth had met in 
 the flesh. The bright scarlet drops rose high and 
 broke, and trickled in vivid stripes across her 
 hand as she held it before his face. Her own was 
 very white, but without a trace of pain. Some 
 thing in the fierce action appealed strongly to 
 the fiery Celtic nature of the man. His features 
 relaxed instantly. 
 
 "I believe you," he said, and she knew it as his 
 arms went round her ; and the pain of the wound 
 made his kisses sweeter.
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 WHEN Dalrymple left Maria on that day, he 
 returned as usual to Stefanone's house. Sora 
 Nanna was alone, for Stefanone was still absent 
 in Koine, and Annetta had gone on the previous 
 day with a number of women to the fair at Civi- 
 tella San Sisto, which took place on Sunday. She 
 was expected to return on Monday afternoon. It 
 is usual enough for a party of women, with two 
 or three men, to go to the fairs in neighbouring 
 towns and to spend the night with the friends of 
 some one of the company. It was more common 
 still, in those days. 
 
 Sora Nanna gave Dalrymple his dinner and kept 
 him company for a while. But he was gloomy and 
 preoccupied, and before long she retired to the 
 regions of the laundry, which was installed in a 
 long low building that ran out into the vegetable 
 garden at the back of the house. Monday was 
 generally the day for ironing the heavy linen of 
 the convent, which was take'n up on Tuesdays in 
 the huge baskets carried by four women, slung to 
 a pole which rested on their shoulders in the old 
 primitive fashion, just as litters are still carried in 
 155
 
 156 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 many parts of Asia. It had occurred more than 
 once to Dalrymple, during the last two days, that 
 he could hide almost anything he chose in one of 
 these baskets, which were always delivered directly 
 to Maria Addolorata and which she was at liberty 
 to unpack in the privacy of the linen room if she 
 chose. 
 
 He thought of this again as he sat over his din 
 ner, and heard the endless song of the women, far 
 off, at their work. He knew the habits of the house 
 thoroughly and all the customs regarding the car 
 rying up of the baskets, and he remembered that 
 several of them would surely be taken to the con 
 vent on the morrow. He thought that if he could 
 procure some more suitable clothes for Maria to 
 wear, this would be a safe means of conveying 
 them to her. She could put them on in her cell, 
 just before the hour at which she was to expect 
 him, so that there would be no time lost and 
 the danger of detection during their flight would 
 be greatly diminished. But there were all sorts of 
 difficulties in the way, and he realized them one 
 by one, until he almost abandoned the scheme in 
 favour of the cloak and plaid which he had first 
 proposed. 
 
 He pushed back his chair and went upstairs to 
 his own room. The impression made upon him 
 by Maria Addolorata, when she had bitten her 
 hand, had been a strong one, but the man's nature,
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 157 
 
 though not exactly distrustful, was melancholic 
 and pessimistic. Two hours and more had passed 
 since they had been together, and things had a dif 
 ferent look. He realized more clearly the strength 
 of the ties which bound Maria to her convent life, 
 and the effort it must be to her to break them. 
 He remembered the arguments he had used, and 
 he saw that they had been those of passion rather 
 than of reason. Their effect could not be lasting, 
 when he himself was not there to lend them his 
 words and the persuasion of his strength. Maria 
 would repent of her promise, and there was 
 nothing to bind her to it. Hitherto there had 
 been no risk, no common danger. By a chain of 
 natural circumstances he had made his way into 
 a most extraordinary position, but it was in her 
 power, in a moment of repentance, to force him 
 from it. While the abbess was ill, Maria was 
 virtually mistress of the convent. At a word from 
 her the doors might be shut in his face. She might 
 promise again, and bite her hand again, but when 
 it came to his waiting outside the garden gate, 
 she might be seized by a fit of repentance, and 
 he might wait till morning. 
 
 As he sat in his room he realized all this, and 
 more, for he knew that on calm reflexion he meant 
 to do what he had that morning threatened in his 
 haste. He had never been attached to life for its 
 own sake. Melancholic men often are not. He
 
 158 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 had many times thought over the subject of suicide 
 with a sort of grim interest in it, which indicated 
 the direction his temper would take if he were ever 
 absolutely defeated in a matter which he had at 
 heart. 
 
 Nothing he had ever felt in his life had taken 
 hold of him as his love for Maria Addolorata, for 
 he had never really been in love before and he 
 had completely abandoned himself to it, as such a 
 man was sure to do in such surroundings. She 
 was beautiful, but that was not all. Since he had 
 heard her sing, he knew that her voice and her 
 rare talent together were genius and nothing less. 
 But that was far from being all. She was of his 
 own class, and he had been seeing her daily, when 
 the peasant women amongst whom he lived were 
 little more than good-natured animals ; but even that 
 was not all. He was at that time of life when a 
 man's character is apt to take a violent and sudden 
 turn in its ultimate direction, when the forces that 
 have been growing show themselves all at once, 
 when passion, having appealed as yet but to the man, 
 has climbed and is within reach of his soul, to take 
 hold of it and twist it, or to be finally conquered, 
 perhaps, in a holy life. But Dalrymple was very 
 far from being the kind of man who could have 
 taken refuge against himself in higher things. At 
 a time when materialism was beginning to seem a 
 great thing, he was a strong materialist in scientific
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 159 
 
 questions. He grasped what he could see and held 
 it, but what he could not see had no existence for 
 him. Nothing transcendental attracted him beyond 
 the sphere of mathematics. Yet he had not the 
 materialist's temperament, for the Highland blood 
 in his veins brought strong fancies and sudden pas 
 sions to his head and heart, such as his chemistry 
 could not explain ; and when the brain burned and the 
 heart beat fast, it meant doing or dying with him, 
 as with many a Scotchman before and since. Life 
 had never seemed to be worth much in his eyes, 
 compared with a thing he wanted. 
 
 He sat still and thought the matter over, and 
 considered the question of death, for a few short 
 minutes. There was not a trace of philosophical 
 speculation in his reflexions, or they would have 
 lasted longer. He merely desired to be sure, with 
 that curious Scotch caution, of his own intentions, 
 in order not to be obliged to think the matter over 
 again at the last minute. 
 
 He had drunk a measure of strong wine with his 
 dinner, as usual. To-day it increased the gloom of 
 his temper, and the pessimistic view he took. In 
 less than a quarter of an hour he had made up his 
 mind that if Maria Addolorata repented at a late 
 hour and refused to leave the convent, he would 
 make an attempt to carry her away by force. If 
 he failed, and found himself shut off from all pos 
 sibility of intercourse with her, life would not be
 
 160 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 worth living, and he would throw it away. When 
 strong men are in that frame of mind, they gener 
 ally accomplish what they have in view. More 
 over, it is a great mistake to think that the people 
 who think and talk of suicide will not take their 
 own lives. On the contrary, statistics show that 
 it is more often those who speak of it the most 
 frequently, who ultimately make away with them 
 selves. The mere fact of contemplating and dis 
 cussing death familiarizes man with it till he 
 does not even attribute to it its true value, which 
 is little enough, as most of us know. Dalrymple 
 was in earnest, and he knew it. 
 
 He rose from his chair and unlocked his little 
 laboratory. Among many other things upon the long 
 table there was a plain English oak box, filled with 
 small stoppered bottles, each having a label upon it 
 with the name of the contents written in his own 
 hand. Some were merely medicines, which he car 
 ried with him in case his services should ever be 
 required, as had happened at the present time. 
 Others were chemicals which he used in his experi 
 ments, such as he eould not easily have procured in 
 Italy, outside of the great cities. One even con 
 tained the common spirits of camphor, of which he 
 had once given Annetta a teaspoonful when she 
 had complained of a chill and sickness. One, how 
 ever, was more than half full of a solution of hydro- 
 cyanide of potassium, a liquid little less suddenly
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 161 
 
 and surely fatal than the prussic acid which enters 
 into its composition. 
 
 He took out this bottle and held it up to the 
 light. The liquid was clear and transparent as 
 water. He watched it curiously as he made it run 
 up to the neck and back again. It might have been 
 taken for pure alcohol, being absolutely colourless. 
 
 " It would not take much of that/' he said to him 
 self, with a grim smile. 
 
 His meditations were interrupted by the voice of 
 Sora Nanna, who had opened his bedroom door 
 without ceremony and stood calling to him. He 
 came forward hastily from the laboratory and went 
 up to her. 
 
 " You do not know ! " she cried, laughing and 
 holding up a letter. "Stefanone has written to 
 me from Rome ! To me ! Who the devil knows 
 what he says ? I do not understand anything of 
 it. Who should teach me to read ? He takes me 
 for a priest, that I should know how to read ! " 
 
 Dalrymple laughed a little as he took the letter. 
 He picked up his hat from a chair, for he meant to 
 go out and spend the afternoon alone upon the hill 
 side. 
 
 " We will read it downstairs," he said. " I am 
 going for a walk." 
 
 He read it to her in the common room on the 
 ground floor. It was a letter dictated by Stefa 
 none to a public scribe, instructing his wife to tell 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 Gigetto that she must send another load of wine to 
 Koine as soon as possible, as the price was good in 
 the market. Stefauone would remain in the city 
 till it came, and sell it before returning. 
 
 " These husbands ! " exclaimed Sora Nanna, with 
 a grin. " What they will not do ! They go, rid 
 ing, riding, and they come back when it seems good 
 to them. Who tells me what he does in Rome ? 
 Rome is great." 
 
 Dalrymple laughed, put on his hat and went off, 
 leaving Sora Nanna to find Gigetto and give the 
 necessary directions.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GIGETTO had refused to accompany Annetta and 
 her party to the fair at Civitella San Sisto. He 
 had been to Rome several times, and was far too 
 fine a young gentleman to divert himself in such a 
 very primitive place. He preferred to spend his 
 leisure hours, which were very many, in elegant 
 idleness, according to his lights, between the tobac 
 conist's, the chemist's shop, which was the resort 
 of all the superior men of the place after four 
 o'clock in the afternoon, and the abundant, though 
 not very refined table which was spread twice daily 
 in his father's house. Civitella wine, Civitella fire 
 works, and especially Civitella girls, were quite 
 beneath his notice. As for Annetta, he looked upon 
 her with something like contempt, though he had 
 a high respect for the fortune which must one day 
 be hers. She was to be a necessary encumbrance 
 of his future life, and for the present he meant to 
 see as little of her as was conveniently possible 
 without relinquishing his claims to her hand. She 
 had admired him, in a way, until the arrival of Dal- 
 rymple, and he felt a little irritation at the Scotch 
 man's presence in the house, so that he occasionally 
 163
 
 164 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 frightened Sora Nanna by talking of waiting for 
 him with a gun at the corner of the forest. It 
 produced a good impression, he thought, to show 
 from time to time that he was not without jeal 
 ousy. But as for going with her on such an ex 
 pedition as a visit to a country fair, it was not 
 to be expected of him. 
 
 Nevertheless, Annetta had enjoyed herself thor 
 oughly with her companions, and was very glad 
 that Gigetto had not been at her elbow with his 
 city notions of propriety, which he applied to her, 
 but made as elastic as he pleased for himself. She 
 had been to high mass in the village church, 
 crowded to suffocation, she had walked up and 
 down the main street half the afternoon, arm in 
 arm with the other girls, giggling and showing off 
 her handsome costume to the poorer natives of 
 the little place, and smiling wickedly at the hand 
 some youths who stood idly in groups at the cor 
 ners of the streets. She had dined sumptuously, 
 and had made her eyes sparkle like rather vulgar 
 little stars by drinking a glass of strong old white 
 wine to the health and speedy marriage of all the 
 other girls. She had gone out with them at dusk, 
 and had watched the pretty fireworks in the small 
 piazza, and had wandered on with them afterwards 
 in the moonlight to the ruin of the Cyclopean 
 fortress which overlooks the two valleys. Then 
 back to the house of her friends, who kept the
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 165 
 
 principal inn, and more tough chicken and tender 
 salad and red wine for supper. And on the next 
 day they had all gone down to the meagre vine 
 yards, half way to San Vito and just below the 
 thick chestnut woods which belong to the Marchese 
 and feudal lord of that ancient town. And there 
 amongst the showers of reddening vine leaves, she 
 had helped to gather the last grapes of the year, 
 with song and jest and laughter. At noon they 
 climbed the hill again in the October sun, and 
 dined upon the remains of the previous day's feast ; 
 then r singing still, they had started on their home 
 ward downward way, happy and not half tired yet 
 when they reached Subiaco in the evening glow. 
 
 They came trooping through the town to the 
 little piazza in which the doctor's house was situ 
 ated. They separated here, some to go up to the 
 higher part, while others were to go down in the 
 same direction as Annetta. The girl looked up 
 at the doctor's windows, and he^r small eyes flashed 
 viciously. It would be a pleasant ending to the 
 two days' holiday to have a look at her work. 
 Now that he was getting well, as Dalrymple told 
 her, she was glad that she had not killed him. It 
 was an even greater satisfaction to have almost 
 frightened the old coward to death. She had been 
 uneasy about the question of confession. 
 
 " By Bacchus," she laughed, " I will go and see 
 Sor Tommaso. They say he is better."
 
 166 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 So she took leave of her companions and entered 
 the narrow door, and climbed the short flight of 
 dark steps and knocked. The doctor's sleeping- 
 room opened directly upon the staircase. He used 
 the room on the ground floor as an office and din 
 ing-room, his old peasant woman-servant slept in 
 the attic, and the other two rooms were let by the 
 year. It was a very small house. 
 
 The old woman, whose name was Serafina, opened 
 the bedroom door and thrust out her head, covered 
 with a dark and threadbare shawl. There was a 
 sibylline gloom about her withered face, as though 
 she had lived a lifetime in the face of a horror to 
 come. 
 
 " What do you want ? " she croaked roughly, and 
 not opening the door any wider. 
 
 "Eh ! What do I want ? I am the Annetta of 
 Stefanone, and I have come to pay a visit to this 
 dear doctor, because they say that he is better, God 
 bless him." 
 
 "Oh! I did not recognize you," said the old 
 woman. " I will ask." 
 
 Still holding the door almost closed, she drew in 
 her head and spoke with Sor Tommaso. Annetta 
 could hear his answer. 
 
 " Of course ! " he said, in a voice still weak, but 
 singularly oily with the politeness of his intention. 
 " Let her favour us ! " 
 
 The door was opened, and Annetta went in. Sor
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 167 
 
 Tommaso was sitting up near the window, in a deep 
 easy-chair covered with ragged green damask. The 
 girl was surprised by his pallor, as compared with 
 his formerly rubicund complexion. Peasant-like, 
 she glanced about the room to judge of its con 
 tents before she spoke. 
 
 " How are you, dear Sor Tommaso ? " she asked 
 after the short pause. "Eh, what we have suf 
 fered for you, all of us ! Who was this barbarian 
 who wished to send you to Paradise ? " 
 
 "Who knows?" returned Sor Tommaso, with 
 amazing blandness. " I trust that he may be for 
 given as I forgive him." 
 
 " What it is to be a wise man ! " exclaimed An- 
 netta, with affected admiration. "To have such 
 sentiments ! It is a beautiful thing. And how do 
 you feel now, dear Sor Tommaso ? Are you get 
 ting your strength again ? They took your blood, 
 those cowardly murderers ! You must make it 
 again." 
 
 Their eyes met, and each knew that the other 
 knew and understood. Sor Tommaso smiled gently. 
 The savage girl's mouth twitched as though she 
 should have liked to laugh. 
 
 "Little by little; who goes slowly goes safely," 
 answered the doctor. " I am an old man, you must 
 know." 
 
 " Old ! " Annetta was glad of the opportunity 
 to laugh at last. " Old ? Eh, on Sunday, when
 
 168 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 you have on those new black trousers of yours that 
 are tight, tight you seem to me a boy as young 
 as Gigetto. For my part, I should prefer you. 
 You are more serious. Gigetto ! What must I 
 say ? He is handsome, he may be good, but he has 
 not a head. There is nothing in that pumpkin." 
 
 "Blood of youth," answered Sor Tommaso. "It 
 must boil. It must fling its chains about. After 
 wards it begins to know the chains. Little by little 
 it accustoms itself to them. Then it is quiet, quiet, 
 as we old ones are. Sit down, my daughter. Sera- 
 fina ! A chair the one that is not lame. These 
 chairs remember the blessed soul of mamma," added 
 Sor Tommaso, in explanation of their weakness. 
 
 "Requiesca' !" exclaimed Annetta, sitting down. 
 
 " Amen," responded Sor Tommaso. " You are 
 so beautiful to-day," he continued, looking at her 
 flowered bodice and new apron ; " where have you 
 been ? " 
 
 "Where should I go ? To Civitella. There was 
 the fair. We ate certain chickens tough ! But 
 the air of the mountain consumes. There were 
 also fireworks." 
 
 " What ? Have you walked ? " asked Sor Tom 
 maso. 
 
 " Even with two legs one can walk," laughed the 
 girl. " But of course a beast is better with four. 
 The beasts had all gone to Tivoli with wine for 
 Home. They had not come back yesterday morn-
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 169 
 
 ing. Therefore with these two feet I walked. 
 I and many others, girls like me. It is true that 
 I am half dead." 
 
 "You are fresher than lettuce," observed Sor 
 Tommaso. "And then you have climbed up my 
 stairs. This is a true Christian act. God return it 
 to you. I am alone all day." 
 
 "But the Englishman comes to see you/' said 
 Annetta, indifferently. 
 
 "The Englishman, yes. He comes. More or 
 less, he has almost cured me. But then, for his 
 conversation, I say nothing ! " 
 
 " Meanwhile he is also curing the abbess. He 
 has a fortunate hand. There death, here death 
 he makes them all alive. Where is death, now ? 
 Here, perhaps ? Hidden in some corner, or under 
 the bed ? He has certain medicines, that English 
 man ! Medicines that you do not even dream of. 
 Strong! It is I that tell you. Sometimes, the 
 whole house smells of them. Death could not re 
 sist them a moment. They drive even the flies out 
 of the windows. The Englishman gave me some 
 once. I had been in the sun and had drunk a gal 
 lon of cold water, foolish as I was. I was thirsty, 
 as I am now. Well, he gave me a spoonful of 
 something like water, mixed in water. I do not 
 tell you anything. At first it burned me. Arch- 
 priest, it burned ! Then, not even a minute, and 
 I had Paradise in my body. And so it passed."
 
 170 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 " Who knows ? A cordial, perhaps," observed 
 Sor Tommaso, thoughtfully. "I have such cor 
 dials, too." 
 
 " I do not doubt it," answered the girl, sus 
 piciously. "But I would rather not taste them. 
 I feel quite well." 
 
 It crossed her mind that in return for three 
 knife-thrusts, Sor Tommaso would probably not 
 miss so good a chance of paying her with a glass 
 of poison. She would certainly have done as much 
 herself, had she been in his place. 
 
 "Who thought of offering you cordials !" replied 
 the doctor, with a polite laugh. " I said it to say 
 it. But if you are thirsty, command me. There 
 is water and good wine. They are the best cor 
 dials." 
 
 "Eh, a little water. I do not refuse. As for 
 the wine, no. I thank you the same. I am fasting 
 and have walked. After supper, at home, I will 
 drink." 
 
 " Serafina ! " cried Sor Tommaso, and the old 
 sibyl immediately appeared from the stairs, whither 
 she had discreetly retired to wait during Annetta's 
 visit. "Bring water, and that bottle of my wine 
 from downstairs. You know, the bottle of old 
 wine of Stefanone's that was opened." 
 
 "No, no. I want no wine," said Annetta, quickly. 
 
 " Bring it all the same. Perhaps she will do us 
 the honour to drink it."
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 171 
 
 Serafina nodded, and her bare feet were heard 
 on the stone steps as she descended. 
 
 "It is bad to drink pure water when one is very 
 thirsty," said Sor Tommaso. " It cramps the stom 
 ach. A little wine gives the stomach strength. 
 But it is best to eat. If you will eat, there are 
 fresh jumbles. I also eat them." 
 
 "I thank you the same," answered Annetta. 
 "I wish only water. It is a long way from Civi- 
 tella, and there is no good spring. There is the 
 brook that runs out of the pond at the foot of the 
 last hill. But it is heavy water, full of stuff." 
 
 Serafina came back, bringing two heavy tumblers 
 of pressed glass on a little black japanned tray, 
 _with a decanter of cold water. In her other hand 
 she carried two bottles, one half full of wine, the 
 other containing the white and sugary syrup of 
 peach kernels of which Italians are so fond. 
 
 " I brought this also," she said, holding up the 
 bottle as she set down the tray. "Perhaps it is 
 better." 
 
 " Yes," said Sor Tommaso, nodding in approba 
 tion. " It is better." 
 
 " You will drink a little orgeat ? " asked the old 
 woman, in a tone of persuasion, and mixing it in 
 the glass. 
 
 "Water, simply water," said Annetta, who was 
 still suspicious. " Give me water in the other 
 glass."
 
 172 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 "But I have mixed already in both," answered 
 Serafina. "Eh, you will drink it. You will not 
 make an old woman like me go all the way down 
 the stairs again. But then, it is good. It is I that 
 tell you. I made it myself, yesterday morning, for 
 the doctor, to refresh his blood a little." 
 
 Annetta had risen to her feet and was watching 
 the glasses, as the old woman stirred the white 
 syrup in the water with an old-fashioned, long- 
 handled spoon. She did not wish to seem absurdly 
 suspicious, and yet she distrusted her enemy. 
 She took one of the glasses, went to his side, and 
 held it to his lips as one gives an invalid drink. 
 
 "After you," he said, with a polite smile, but 
 raising his hand to take the glass. 
 
 " Sick people first, well people afterwards," 
 answered Annetta, smiling too, but watching him 
 intently. 
 
 He had satisfied himself that she really sus 
 pected foul play, for he knew the peasants well, 
 and was only a degree removed from them himself. 
 He at once dismissed her suspicions by drinking 
 half the tumbler at a draught. She immediately 
 took the other and emptied it eagerly, as she was 
 really very thirsty. 
 
 "A little more?" suggested Serafina, in her 
 croaking voice. 
 
 "No," interposed Sor Tommaso. "It might 
 hurt her so much at once."
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 173 
 
 But Annetta filled the tumbler with pure water, 
 and emptied it again. 
 
 "At last!" she exclaimed with a sigh of satis 
 faction. " What thirst ! I seemed to have eaten 
 ashes ! And now I thank you, Sor Toinmaso, and 
 I am going home ; for it is Ave Maria, and I do not 
 wish to make a bad meeting in the dark as hap 
 pened to you. Ugly assassins ! I will never for 
 give them, never ! What am I to say at home ? 
 That you will come to supper one of these 
 days ? " 
 
 "Eh, if God wills," answered the doctor. " I will 
 be accompanied by Serafina." 
 
 " I ! " exclaimed the old woman. " I am afraid 
 even of a cat ! What could I do for you ? " 
 
 "Company is always company," said Sor Tom- 
 maso, wisely. "Where one would not go, two go 
 bravely. Good evening, my beautiful daughter," 
 he added, looking up at Annetta. " The Madonna 
 go with you." 
 
 "Thank you, and good evening," answered the 
 girl, dropping half a courtsey, with a vicious twinkle 
 in her little eyes. 
 
 She turned, and was out of the room in a moment. 
 On the way home' through the narrow streets in 
 the evening glow, she sang snatches of song to her 
 self, and thought of all she had said to Sor Tom- 
 maso, and of all he had said to her, and of how 
 much afraid he was of her father's knife. For
 
 174 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 otherwise, as she knew, he would have had her 
 arrested. 
 
 Suddenly, at the last turning she stopped and 
 turned very pale, clasping both hands upon her 
 bodice. 
 
 "Assassin!" she groaned, grinding her short 
 white teeth. " He has poisoned me, after all ! An 
 evil death to him and all his house ! Assassin ! " 
 
 She forgot that she had experienced precisely 
 the same sensations once before, when she had been 
 overheated and had swallowed too much cold water.
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 WITH slow steps, and pressing her clasped hands 
 to her bodice, the girl reached the door of her 
 father's hoxise at dusk. She knew that he was 
 away, and that as she had not come home earlier 
 her mother would be in the lower regions preparing 
 Dairy mple's supper for him. The door which gave 
 access to the staircase from the street was still 
 open, and she was almost sure of being able to 
 reach her own room unobserved, unless she chanced 
 to come upon Dairy mple himself on the stairs. 
 Just then she would rather have met him than her 
 mother. She was in great pain, and it would have 
 been hard to explain to Sora Nanna that she be 
 lieved herself to have been deliberately poisoned. 
 
 She crept noiselessly up the stairs, which were 
 almost dark, and she came to Dairy mple's door 
 which faced the first landing. She paused and 
 hesitated, leaning against the wall. He was a 
 wise man in her opinion, and would of course un 
 derstand her symptoms at once. But then, as she 
 was poisoned, he could do nothing for her. If that 
 were true, her next thought told her that Sor Tom- 
 maso must have poisoned himself. He would not 
 175
 
 176 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 do that. She had never heard of antidotes; for 
 though poisoning was traditionally familiar to her 
 and the people of her class, it was very uncommon. 
 Yet her sharpened wit told her that if Sor Tommaso 
 had swallowed the stuff, as he had done, with a 
 smile, he had means at his disposal for counter 
 acting it some medicine which he had doubtless 
 taken as soon as she had left him. But if he had 
 medicine to save from poison, Dalryrnple, who 
 was a far wiser man, must have such medicines, 
 too, and even better ones. This reflexion decided 
 her. She was close to his door. It was probable 
 that he would be in his room at that hour. She 
 was in fear of her life, and she knocked. 
 
 But Dalrymple had not come back. He had 
 gone for a long walk alone in the hills, had climbed 
 higher as the sun sank lower, and was belated 
 in steep paths along which even his mountain- 
 trained feet trod with some caution. He was too 
 familiar with the country to lose his way, but he 
 by no means found the shortest way there was, 
 nor was he especially anxious to do so. The hours 
 would pass sooner in walking than in sitting over 
 his books under the flaring little flames of the three 
 brass beaks. 
 
 Annetta saw that there was no light in the room, 
 for the hole through which the latch-string hung 
 was worn wide with use. She felt dizzy, too, and 
 the knife-like pain ran through her so that she
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 177 
 
 bent herself. She knew that Dalrymple kept his 
 medicines locked up in the laboratory, and that she 
 could not get at them, though she would have had 
 little hesitation in swallowing anything she found, 
 in the simple certainty that all his medicines must 
 be good in themselves, and therefore life-saving and 
 good for her. But he was out, and she was sure 
 that there could be nothing in the bedroom. She 
 had herself too often looked into every corner when 
 she watered and swept the brick floor each morn 
 ing, and put things in order according to her 
 primitive ideas. 
 
 She then and there lost her hold upon life. She 
 was poisoned, and must die. She was as sure of 
 it as the Chinaman who has seen an eagle, and 
 who, recognizing that his hour is come, calmly lies 
 down and breathes his last by the mere suspension 
 of volition. In old countries the lower orders, as 
 a rule, have but a low vitality. It may be truer 
 to say that the vital volition is weak. Let the 
 learned settle the definition. The fact is easily 
 accounted for. During generations upon genera 
 tions the majority of European agricultural popu 
 lations live upon vegetable food, like the majority 
 of Eastern Asiatics, and with the same result. 
 Hard labour produces hard muscles, but vegetable 
 food yields a low vital tension, so to say. Soldiers 
 know it well enough. The pale-faced city clerk 
 who eats meat twice a day will out-fight and out- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 last and out-starve the burly labourer whose big 
 thews and sinews are mostly compounded of pota 
 toes, corn, and water. 
 
 The girl crept up the stairs stealthily to her 
 lonely little room, and lay down to die upon her 
 bed, as though that were the only thing to be done 
 under the circumstances. It never occurred to her 
 to go to her mother and tell her what had happened 
 and what she suspected, any more than it had sug 
 gested itself to Sor Tommaso to lay information 
 against her for having stabbed him. If her father 
 had been at home, she might perhaps have gone to 
 him and told him with her dying breath that the 
 doctor had killed her, and that Stefanone must 
 avenge her. But he was away. She was stronger 
 than her mother and had always dominated her. 
 She knew also that if she complained, Sora Nanna 
 would raise such a scream as would bring half 
 Subiaco running to the house. The girl's animal 
 instinct was to die alone, and quietly. So she 
 made no sound, and lay upon her bed writhing 
 in pain and holding her sides with all her might, 
 but with close-set teeth and silent lips. 
 
 Looked at from the point of view of fact, it was 
 all ridiculous enough. The girl had been all day 
 in the hot autumn sun, had eaten a quantity of 
 over-ripe figs and grapes, which might have upset 
 the digestion of an ostrich, had tired even her 
 strong limbs with the final walk home, and had
 
 CA8A BEACCIO. ^ 179 
 
 then, at Sor Tommaso's house, swallowed nearly a 
 quart of ice-cold water. It was not surprising that 
 she should be very ill. It was not even strange 
 that the theory of poison should suggest itself. To 
 her it was tragedy, and meant nothing less than 
 death, when she lay down upon her bed. 
 
 Between the spasms all sorts of things passed 
 through her mind, when her head lay still upon 
 the pillow. Chiefly and particularly her thoughts 
 were filled with hatred of Sor Tommaso, and a sort 
 of doglike longing to see Dairy mple's face before 
 she died. She was still fascinated by the vision 
 of his red hair and bright blue eyes which came 
 back to her vividly, with the careless smile his 
 hard face had for her half-childish, half -malicious 
 sayings. And with the thought of him came also 
 jealousy of Maria Addolorata, and another hatred 
 which was deeper and stronger and more venge 
 ful than any she owed Sor Tommaso. She felt, 
 rather than understood, that Dalrymple loved the 
 nun with all his heart. She had spoken of her 
 to him and had watched his face, and had seen the 
 quick, savage glare of his eyes, though his voice 
 had only expressed his annoyance. As the vision 
 of him rose before her, she saw him as he had been 
 when the angry blush had overspread his face to 
 the roots of his hair. 
 
 The image fixed itself. In the dim shadow 
 behind it, she saw the face of Maria Addolorata
 
 180 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 like a death-mask, and those strange, deep eyes of 
 the nun's looking scornfully at her over the man's 
 shoulder, though she forgot him in the woman's 
 deadly fascination. She stared, unable to close 
 her lids, as it seemed to her, though she longed 
 to shut out the sight. Then a dull noise seemed 
 to be in her ears, a noise that was not a sound, 
 but the stunning effect on her brain of a sound not 
 heard but imagined. There were great circles of 
 light around the nun's head, which cut through 
 Dalrymple's face and then hid it. They were like 
 glories, like the halos about the heads of saints. 
 Annetta was angry with them, for she was sure 
 that Maria Addolorata was bad, and sinned in her 
 throat. 
 
 " An evil death on you and all your house ! " cried 
 the angry peasant girl, in a low voice. 
 
 " Death ! " She could not tell whence the echo 
 came back to her, in a tone strange to her ears 
 for it was her own, perhaps. 
 
 She was startled. The vision vanished, and she 
 sat up on her bed with a quick movement, sud 
 denly wide awake. The pain must have passed. 
 No it came again, but with far less keenness. 
 She felt her face with her hands, and laughed 
 softly, for she knew that she was alive. It was 
 night, and she must have lain some time there all 
 alone, for there was a silvery, misty something 
 through the darkness, the white dawn of moonrise,
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 181 
 
 which is not like the dawn of day, nor like the 
 departing twilight. As she sat up she saw the 
 outline of the hills, jagged against the crosses of 
 the lead-joined panes in the window. There was 
 the inoon-dawn sending up its soft radiance to the 
 sky. A little longer she watched, and a single 
 bright point sent one level ray straight into her 
 face. A moment more and the room was flooded 
 with light so that she could see the smallest objects 
 distinctly. 
 
 " But I am alive ! " she exclaimed in a soft, glad 
 tone. "The brigand only did me a spite. He 
 was afraid to kill me." 
 
 The pain seized her again, less sharp than before, 
 but keen enough to stir her anger. She still sat 
 up, but bent forward, clasping her bodice. In the 
 moonlight she could see her heavy shoes on her 
 feet sticking up before her. Realizing that it was 
 a disgraceful thing to lie down with them on, she 
 sprang off the bed, and began to dust the coverlet 
 with her hand. The pain passed. 
 
 After all, she reflected, she had swallowed a 
 quantity of cold water at Sor Tommaso's, whether 
 the first glass had contained any poison or not. 
 She had not forgotten, either, that the same thing 
 had once happened to her before, and that Dajrym- 
 ple had made it pass with a spoonful of something 
 that had stung her mouth and throat, but which 
 had afterwards warmed her and cured her. She
 
 182 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 felt chilly now, and she wished that she had some 
 of that same stinging, warming stuff. 
 
 Something moved, somewhere in the house. The 
 girl listened intently for a moment. Probably 
 Dalrymple had come back and was moving about 
 in his room, washing his hands, as he always did 
 before supper, and taking off his heavy boots. His 
 room was immediately under hers, facing in the 
 same direction. She went towards the door, in 
 tending to go down at once and ask him for some 
 of his medicine. By this time she was persuaded 
 that she was not in any danger, and her common- 
 sense told her that she had merely made herself 
 momentarily ill with too many grapes, too much 
 cold water, and too long exposure to the sun. She 
 did not care to let her mother know anything about 
 it, for Sora Nanna would scold her. It would be 
 a simple matter to catch the Scotchman at his door, 
 to get what she wanted from him with an easily 
 given promise of secjecy, and then to come down 
 stairs as though nothing had happened. 
 
 Annetta only hesitated a moment, and then went 
 out into the dark staircase, and crept down, as she 
 had crept up, feeling her way at the turnings, by 
 the wall. She reached the door, and was surprised 
 to see that there was no light within none of 
 that yellow light which a lamp makes, but only 
 the grey glimmer of the moonlight through the 
 shadow, creeping out by the hole of the latch-string.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 183 
 
 Her ears had deceived her, and DalryiAple was not 
 there. Nevertheless she believed that he was. 
 The moonlight would be in his room as it was in 
 hers, just overhead, and he might not have taken 
 the trouble to light his lamp. It was very proba 
 ble. She tapped softly, but there was no answer. 
 She was afraid that her mother might come up the 
 stairs and hear her speaking through the door, as 
 though by stealth. She put her lips close to the 
 hole of the latch and whistled softly. Her whistle 
 was broken by her own smile as she fancied that 
 Dalrymple might start at the unexpected sound. 
 
 But there was no response. Growing bolder, 
 she called him gently. 
 
 " Signor ! Are you there? " 
 
 There was no answer. Just then, as she stooped, 
 the pain ran through her once more. She was so 
 sure that she had heard him that she was convinced 
 he must be within, very probably in his little 
 laboratory beyond the bedroom. The pain hurt 
 her, and he had the medicine. Very naturally 
 she pulled the string and pushed the door open. 
 
 He was not there. The moonlight flooded every 
 thing, and the whitewashed walls reflected it, so 
 that the place was as bright as day. The first 
 object that met her eyes was a small bottle stand 
 ing near the edge of the table in the middle of the 
 room, where Dalrymple had carelessly set it down 
 in the afternoon when Sora ISC anna had called him
 
 184 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 to read her 'letter. It was directly in the line of 
 the moon's rays, and the stopper gleamed like a 
 little star. 
 
 Annetta started with joy as she saw it. It was 
 the very bottle from which he had given her the 
 camphor, less than a month ago the same in size, 
 in its transparent contents, in its label. It might 
 have deceived a keener eye than hers. 
 
 The door of the laboratory stood open, as he had 
 left it, being at the time preoccupied and careless. 
 She only stopped a moment to assure herself that 
 the bottle was the right one, reflecting that he had 
 perhaps felt ill and had taken some of it himself. 
 She went on and looked into the little room. 
 
 " Signore ! " she called softly. But there was 
 no answer. 
 
 It was clear that Dalrymple was either still out, 
 or was downstairs at his supper, with her mother. 
 He might be out, however. It was quite possible, 
 on such a fine evening, for he was irregular in his 
 hours. He would not like it if he came in sud 
 denly and found her meddling with his belongings. 
 She crossed the room again and softly shut the 
 door. At least, if he came, she would not be 
 found with the bottle in her hand. She could 
 give an excuse. 
 
 It was all so natural. It was the same bottle. 
 She knew the right quantity, for she had the peas 
 ant's memory for such detail. There was a glass
 
 CA8A BEACCIO. 185 
 
 and a decanter of water on a white plate on the 
 table. She had no spoon, but that did not matter. 
 She took out the stopper with her strong fingers, 
 though it stuck a little. The pain ran through her 
 again as she poured some of the contents into the 
 tumbler, and it made her hand shake so that she 
 poured out a little more than necessary. But it 
 did not matter. She filled it up with water, held 
 the glass up to the moonlight, and drank it at a 
 draught, and set the empty tumbler upon the table 
 again. 
 
 Instantly her features changed. She felt as 
 though she were struck through head and heart 
 and body with red-hot steel. Maria Addolorata's 
 death-mask rose before her in the moonlight. 
 
 " An evil death on you and all your house ! " she 
 tried to say. 
 
 But the words were not out of her mouth before 
 she shivered, caught herself by the table, sank 
 down, and lay stone dead upon the brick floor. 
 
 There was no noise. Dying, she thought she 
 screamed, but only the faintest moan had passed 
 her lips. 
 
 The door was shut, and the quiet moonlight 
 floated in and silvered her dark, dead face.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AT moonrise on that evening, Maria Addolorata 
 was standing at the open door of her cell, watch 
 ing the dark clouds in the west, as they caught 
 the light one by one, edge by edge. The black 
 shadow of the convent covered all the garden still, 
 and one passing could hardly have seen her as she 
 stood there. Her veil was raised, and the cold 
 mountain breeze chilled her cheeks. But she did 
 not feel it, for she had been long by the abbess's 
 bedside, and then long, again, in the close choir of 
 the church, and her head was hot and aching. 
 
 To her, as she looked towards the western moun 
 tains and watched the piling clouds, and felt the 
 cool, damp wind, it seemed as though there were 
 something strangely tragic in the air that night. 
 The wind whistled now and then through the 
 cracks of the convent windows and over the cren- 
 ellations of the old walls, as Death's scythe might 
 whistle if he were mowing down men with a right 
 good will, heaps upon heaps of slain. The old 
 bell struck the hour, sullenly, with a dead thud 
 in the air after each stroke, as a bell tolls for 
 a burial. The very clouds were black and silver 
 in the sky, like a funeral pall. 
 186
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 187 
 
 Maria* Addolorata leaned against the door-post 
 and looked out, her hand white in the shadow 
 against the dark wood, her face whiter still. But 
 on her hand there were two marks, visible even in 
 the dimness. They would have been red in the 
 day, and the place hurt her from time to time, for 
 she had bitten it savagely. It was her pledge, and 
 the pain of it reminded her of what she had 
 promised to do. 
 
 She needed the reminder; for now that he was 
 not near her, the enormous crime stood out, black 
 and lofty as death itself. It was different when 
 Dalrymple was at her side. His violent vitality 
 dragged hers into action, dragged, drove it, and 
 goaded it, as unwilling soldiers have been driven 
 into battle in barbarous armies. Then the fatality 
 seemed irresistible, then the dangers seemed small, 
 and the burning red shame was pale and weak. 
 Those bony young hands of his had strength in 
 them for two, his gleaming eyes burnt out the 
 resistance in hers, and lighted them with their 
 own glow. The hearty recklessness of his unbelief 
 drove through and through her composite faith, 
 and riddled it with loopholes for her soul's escape. 
 Then the reality of her passion made her nobler 
 love mad to be free, and to break through the 
 solid walls in which it had been born and had 
 grown too strong. When his IOVB was there, hers 
 matched itself with his, to smite fortune in the
 
 188 CA8A BBACCIO. 
 
 face, to dare and out-dare heaven and hell for 
 love's sake, with him, the bursting blood made 
 iron of her hand, tingling to buffet coward fate's 
 pale mouth. Then she was strong above women; 
 then she was brave as brave men; then, having 
 promised, to keep was but the natural hold of 
 will, to die was but to dare one little adversary 
 more. 
 
 But she was alone now, and thinking, as she 
 looked out into the tragic night, and watched the 
 blackness of the monumental clouds. She did not 
 return to her former self, as some women do when 
 the goad leaves the heart in peace for a moment. 
 She did not say to herself that she would order 
 the convent gate to be shut on Angus Dalrymple 
 forever, and herself go back to the close choir, to 
 sit in her seat amongst the rest, and sing holy 
 songs with the others, restfully unhappy as many 
 of them were. She knew far too well how strongly 
 her heart could beat, and how icy cold her hands 
 could grow when love was near her. Yet she 
 shuddered with horror at what she had promised 
 to do. She would struggle to the last, but she 
 must yield when she heard his voice, and felt his 
 hand, at the very last moment, when they should 
 be at the garden gate, he drawing her on, she 
 looking back. 
 
 It was perjury and sacrilege, and earthly shame, 
 and eternal damnation. Nothing less. And the
 
 CAS A BRACC1O. 189 
 
 words had full and deadly meaning for her. It 
 mattered little that he should think differently, 
 being of another faith, or rather, of no faith at all. 
 It was all true to her. It was not risk; it was 
 certainty. What forgiveness had earth or heaven 
 for a faithless nun ? He talked of marriage, and 
 he would marry her according to a rite that had 
 a meaning in his eyes. Heaven would not divorce 
 the sworn and plighted spouse of Christ to be the 
 earthly wife of Angus Dalrymple. 
 
 Visions of eternal torment rose in her mind, a 
 tangible searing hell alive with flame and devils, 
 a sea of liquid fire, an ocean of boiling pitch, Satan 
 commanding in the midst, and a myriad of fiends 
 working his tormenting will. 
 
 Her pale lips curled scornfully in the dark. 
 Those were not the terrors that frightened her, 
 nor the horrors from which she shrank. There 
 was a question which was not to be answered by 
 her own soul in damnation or salvation, but by the 
 lips of men hereafter the question of the honour 
 of her name. The traditions of the good old barons 
 were not dead in that day, nor are they all dead 
 yet. Many a Braccio had done evil deeds in his 
 or her day, and one, at least, had evil deeds to do 
 after Maria Adclolorata had been laid in her grave. 
 But sin was one thing, and dishonour was quite 
 another, even in the eyes of the nun of Subiaco. 
 For her sins she could and must answer with the
 
 190 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 weal or woe of her own soul. But her dishonour 
 would be upon her father and her mother and 
 upon all her race. Nor was there any dishonour 
 deeper, more deadly, or more lasting than that 
 brought upon a stainless name by a faithless nun. 
 Maria Braccio hesitated at disgrace, while Maria 
 Addolorata smiled at perdition. It was not the 
 first time that honour had taken God's part against 
 the devil in the history of her family. 
 
 That was the great obstacle of all, and she knew 
 it now. She was able to face all consequences but 
 that, terrible as they might be. The barrier was 
 there, the traditional old belief in honour as first, 
 and above every consideration. They had played 
 upon that very belief, when, at the last, she had 
 hesitated to take the veil. She had gone so far, 
 they had told her, that it would be cowardly and 
 dishonourable to turn back at the last minute. 
 The same argument existed now. Then, she would 
 at least have had human right and ecclesiastical 
 law on her side, if she had refused to become a 
 nun. Now, all was against her. Then, she would 
 have had to face but the condemning opinion of a 
 few who spoke of implied obligation. Now, she 
 must stand up and be ashamed before the whole 
 world. There would be a horrible publicity about 
 it. She was too high born not to feel that all the 
 world in which she should ever move was as 
 one great family. Dalrymple might promise her
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 191 
 
 honour and respect, and the affection of his own 
 father and mother for the love of her parents, a 
 home, respected wifehood, and all the rest. With 
 his strength, he might impose her upon his family, 
 and they might treat her as he should dictate, for 
 he was a strong and dominant man. But in their 
 hearts, Protestants, English people, foreigners as 
 they were to her race, even they could not tell 
 themselves honestly that it was not a shameful 
 thing to break such vows as hers, shameful and 
 nothing less. And if, for a moment, he were not 
 there to hold them in his check, she should see it 
 in their faces, and she must hang her head, for she 
 could have nothing to answer. For him, she must 
 not only sacrifice her soul, wrench out her faith, 
 break her promise to God, and her vows to the 
 Church. She must give herself to public, earthly 
 shame, for his sake. 
 
 It was too much. She could bear anything but 
 that. Rather than endure that, it was better to 
 die. 
 
 The black clouds rose higher in the west, and 
 the gloomy air blew upon her face. Her head was 
 no longer hot, for a chilly horror had come upon 
 her, like the shadow of something unspeakably 
 awful, close at hand. Suddenly, she was afraid to 
 be alone. A bat, lured by the second twilight of 
 the moon's rising, whirled down from above, with 
 softly flapping wings, and almost brushed her face.
 
 192 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 She drew back quickly into the doorway. It was 
 a very tragic night, she thought. She shut the 
 door, and groped her way out beyond her cell to 
 the corridor, dimly illuminated by a single light 
 hanging from the vault by a running cord. She 
 entered the abbess's apartment. One of the sisters 
 had taken her place, but Maria Addolorata sent her 
 away by a gesture, and sat down by the bedside. 
 
 The old lady was either asleep, or did not notice 
 her niece's coming. Her face was grey as ashes, 
 and upturned in the shadow. Upon the stone 
 floor stood the primitive Italian night-light, a wick 
 supported in a triangular bit of tin by three little 
 corks in oil floating on water in a tumbler. The 
 light was very clear and steady, though there was 
 little of it, and to Maria, who had been long in 
 comparative darkness, the room seemed bright 
 enough. There was little furniture besides the 
 plain bed, a little table, a couple of chairs, and 
 a tall, dark wardrobe. A grim crucifix, hung above 
 the abbess's head, on the white wall, the work of an 
 age in which horror was familiar to the eye, and 
 needed exaggeration to teach hardened humanity. 
 
 Maria was too much occupied with her own 
 thoughts to notice the sick woman's condition 
 at once. Besides, during the last two days there 
 had been no return of the syncope, and the abbess 
 had seemed to be improving steadily. She breathed 
 rather heavily and seemed to be asleep.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 193 
 
 Gradually, however, as the nun sat motionless 
 beside her and as the storm of thought subsided, 
 she became aware that all was not right. Her 
 aunt's face was unnaturally grey, the breathing 
 was unusually slow and heavy. When the breath 
 was drawn in, the thin nostrils flattened themselves 
 strangely on each side, and the features had a 
 peaked look. Maria rose and felt the pulse. It 
 was fluttering, and not always perceptible. 
 
 At first Maria's attention to these facts was 
 only mechanical. Then, with a sudden sinking 
 at her own heart, she realized what they might 
 mean another crisis like the one in which the 
 abbess had so narrowly escaped death. It was 
 true that on that occasion she had called for help 
 more than once, showing that she had felt her 
 self to be sinking. At present she seemed to 
 be unconscious, which, if anything, was a worse 
 feature. 
 
 Maria drew a long breath and held it, biting her 
 lips, as people do in moments of suspense, doubt, 
 and anxiety. It was as though fate had thrust 
 the great decision onward at the last moment. 
 The life that hung in the balance before her eyes 
 meant the possibility of waiting, with the feeble 
 consolation of being yet undecided. 
 
 She stood as still as a statue, her face like a 
 mask, her hand on the unconscious woman's wrist. 
 The stimulant which Dairy m pie had shown her 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 how to use was at hand the glass with which 
 to administer it. It would prolong life. It might 
 save it. 
 
 Should she give it ? The seconds ran to min 
 utes, and the dreadful question was unanswered. 
 If the abbess died, as die she almost certainly 
 must within half an hour, if the medicine were not 
 given to her if she died, Maria would call the 
 sisters, the portress would be instructed, and when 
 Dalrymple came on the morrow, he would be told 
 that all was over, and that he was no longer 
 needed. Nothing could be more sure. He might 
 do his utmost. He could not enter the convent 
 again. 
 
 In a quick vision, as she stood stone-still, Maria 
 saw herself alone in the chapel by night, prostrate, 
 repentant, washing the altar steps with tears, for 
 given of God, since God could still forgive her, 
 honoured on earth as before, since none but the 
 silent confessor could ever know what she had 
 done, still less what she had meant to do. Her 
 sorrow would be real, overwhelming, able to move 
 Heaven to mercy, her penance true-hearted and 
 severe as she deserved. Her name would be un 
 spotted and unblemished. 
 
 It would be so easy, if she had not to see him 
 again. How could she resist him, if he could so 
 much as touch her hand? But if she were de 
 fended from him, she could bury his love and
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 195 
 
 pray for him in the memory of the thing dead. 
 All that, if she but let that heavy breathing go 
 on a little longer, if she did not raise her hand 
 and set a glass to those grey, parted lips. 
 
 They were parted now. The laboured breath 
 was drawn through the teeth. The eyelids were 
 a little raised, and showed but the white of the 
 upturned eyes. 
 
 Maria stared fixedly into the pinched face, and a 
 new horror came upon her. 
 
 It was murder she was doing. Nothing less. 
 The power to save was there, and she would not 
 use it. No it could not be murder it was 
 not possible that she could do murder. 
 
 Still with wide eyes she stared. Surely the 
 heavy breath had come more quickly a moment 
 ago. It seemed an age between each rise and 
 fall of the coverlet. There was a ghastly whis 
 tling sound of it between the teeth. 
 
 It was slower still. The eyelids were gradually 
 opening the blind white was horrible to see. 
 Each breath was a convulsion that shook the 
 frail body. 
 
 It was murder. Her hand shot out like light 
 ning and seized the small bottle. Let anything 
 come, love, shame, heaven, damnation; it should 
 not be murder. 
 
 She forced the unstoppered bottle into the 
 dying woman's mouth with a desperate hand.
 
 196 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 The next breath was drawn with a choking effort. 
 The whole body stirred. The thin hand appeared, 
 grasped the coverlet with distorting energy, and 
 then lay almost still, twitching convulsively second 
 by second. Still Maria tried wildly to pour more 
 of the stimulant between the set teeth. When 
 they parted, no breath came, and the fingers only 
 moved once more, for the very last time. 
 
 It was not murder, but it was death. The 
 wasted old woman had outlived by two or three 
 hours the strong, young peasant girl, and fate had 
 laid her hand heavily upon the life of Maria 
 Addolorata.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 WHEN Dalrymple came home that evening, he 
 found his supper already on the table and half 
 cold. Sora Nanna was busier than her daughter, 
 and less patient of the Scotchman's irregularities. 
 If he could not come home at a reasonable hour, 
 he must not expect her to keep everything waiting 
 for him. 
 
 He sat down to the table without even going up. 
 stairs as usual to wash his hands, simply because 
 the cooked meat would be cold and greasy if he let 
 it stand five minutes longer. Being once seated 
 in his place, he did not move for a long time. 
 Sora oSTanna came in more than once. She was very 
 much preoccupied about the load of wine which 
 her husband had ordered to be sent, and which, 
 if possible, she meant to send off before morn 
 ing, for she did not wish him to be absent in 
 Rome with money in his pocket a day longer than 
 necessary. 
 
 Gleomy and preoccupied, without even a book 
 
 before him, Dalrymple sat with his back to the 
 
 wall, drinking his wine in silence, and staring at 
 
 the lamp. Sora Nanna asked him whether he had 
 
 197
 
 198 CA8A BEACCIO. 
 
 seen Annetta. He shook his head without speak 
 ing. The woman observed that the girls were 
 quite capable of spending a second night at Civi- 
 tella to prolong the festivities. Dalrymple nodded, 
 not caring at all. 
 
 Annetta being absent, Gigetto had not thought 
 it necessary to put in an appearance. But Sora 
 Xanna wished to see him again about the wine. 
 With a grin, she asked Dalrymple whether he 
 would keep house if she went out for half an hour. 
 Again he nodded in silence. He heard her lock 
 from the inside the door which opened from the 
 staircase upon the street, for it was already late. 
 Then she came through the common room again, 
 with her overskirt over her head, went out, and 
 left the door ajar. Dalrymple was alone in the 
 house, unaware that Annetta was lying dead on 
 the floor of his room upstairs. 
 
 Sora Nanna had not been gone a quarter of an 
 hour when a boy came in from the street. Dal 
 rymple knew him, for he was the son of the con 
 vent gardener. 
 
 The lad said that Dalrymple was wanted immedi 
 ately, as the abbess was very ill. That was all he 
 knew. He was rather a dull boy, and he repeated 
 mechanically what he had been told. The Scotch 
 man started and was about to speak, when he 
 checked himself. He asked the boy two or three 
 questions, in the hope of getting more accurate
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 199 
 
 information, but could only elicit a repetition of 
 the message. He was wanted immediately, as the 
 abbess was very ill. 
 
 He covered his eyes with his hand for a few 
 seconds. In a flash he saw that if he were ever to 
 carry off Maria Addolorata, it must be to-night. 
 The chances were a hundred to one that if there 
 were another crisis, the abbess would be dead be 
 fore he could reach the convent. Once dead, there 
 was no knowing what might happen in the confu 
 sion that would ensue, and during the elaborate 
 funeral ceremonies. The man had that daring 
 temper that rises at obstacles as an eagle at a crag, 
 without the slightest hesitation. When he dropped 
 his hand upon the table he had made up his mind. 
 
 It was generally easy to get a good mule at any 
 hour of the night in Subiaco. The mules were in 
 their stables then. In the daytime it would have 
 been very doubtful, when most of them were away 
 in the vineyards, or carrying loads to the neigh 
 bouring towns. The convent gardener, who was 
 well-to-do in the world, had a very good mule, as 
 Dalrymple knew, and its stable was half-way up 
 the ascent. The boy could saddle it with the pack- 
 saddle without any difficulty, and meet him any 
 where he chose. Dalrymple's reputation was ex 
 cellent as a liberal foreigner who paid well, and 
 the gardener would not blame the boy for saddling 
 the mule without leave.
 
 200 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 In a few words Dalrymple explained what he 
 wanted, and to help the lad's understanding he gave 
 him some coppers which filled the little fellow 
 with energy and delight. The boy was to be at the 
 top of the mule path leading down from above the 
 convent to the valley in half an hour. Dalrymple 
 told him that he wished to go to Tivoli, and that 
 the boy could come with him if he chose, after the 
 visit to the abbess was over. The boy ran away 
 to saddle the mule. 
 
 Dalrymple rose quickly, and shut the street door 
 in order to take the lamp with him to his room, 
 and not to leave the house open with no light in it. 
 The case was urgent. He went upstairs, carrying 
 the lamp, and opened the door of his quarters. 
 Instantly he recognized the faint, sickly odour of 
 hydrocyanide of potassium, and remembered that 
 he had left the bottle with the solution on his 
 table that afternoon in his hurry. Then he looked 
 down and saw a white face upon the floor, and 
 the flowered bodice and smart skirt of the peasant 
 girl. 
 
 He had solid nerves, and possessed that perfect 
 indifference to death as a phenomenon which most 
 medical men acquire in the dissecting-room. But 
 he was shocked when, bending down, and setting 
 the lamp upon the floor, he saw in a few seconds 
 that Annetta had been dead some time. He even 
 shook his head a little, very slowly, which meant a
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 201 
 
 great deal for his hard nature. Glancing at the 
 unstoppered bottle and at the empty glass, side by 
 side on the table, he understood at once that the 
 girl, intentionally or by mistake, had swallowed 
 enough of the poison to kill half-a-dozen strong 
 men. He remembered instantly how he had once 
 given her spirits of camphor when she had felt 
 ill, and he understood all the circumstances in a 
 moment, almost as though he had seen them. 
 
 Scarcely thinking of what he was doing, though 
 with an effort which any one who has attempted 
 to lift a dead body from the ground will under 
 stand, he took up the lifeless girl, stiff and stark 
 as she was, and laid her upon his own bed. It 
 was a mere instinct of humanity. Then he went 
 back and took the lamp and held it near her 
 face, and shook his head again, thoughtfully. A 
 word of pity escaped his lips, spoken very low. 
 
 He set the lamp down on the floor by the bed 
 side, for there was no small table near. There 
 never is, in peasants' houses. He began to walk 
 up and down the room, thinking over the situation, 
 which was grave enough. 
 
 Suddenly he smelt the acrid odour of burning 
 cotton. He turned quickly, and saw that he had 
 placed the three-beaked lamp so near to the bed 
 that the overhanging coverlet was directly above 
 one of the flames, and was already smouldering. 
 He smothered it with the stuff itself between his
 
 202 CAS A BE AC CIO. 
 
 hands, brought the lamp into the laboratory, and 
 set it upon the table. 
 
 Then, realizing that his own case was urgent, he 
 began to make his preparations. He took a clean 
 bottle and poured thirty-five drops of laudanum 
 into it, put in the stopper, and thrust it into his 
 pocket. Unlocking another box, he took out some 
 papers and a canvas bag of gold, such as bankers 
 used to give travellers in those times when it was 
 necessary to take a large supply of cash for a jour 
 ney. He threw on his cloak, took his plaid over 
 one arm and went back into his bedroom, carry 
 ing the lamp in the other hand. Then he hesi 
 tated, sniffing the air and the smell of the burnt 
 cotton. Suddenly an idea seemed to cross his 
 mind, for he put down the lamp and dropped his 
 plaid upon a chair. He stood still a moment 
 longer, looking at the dead girl as she lay on the 
 bed, biting his lip thoughtfully, and nodding his 
 head once or twice. He made a step towards the 
 bed, then hesitated once more, and then made up 
 his mind. 
 
 He went back to the bedside, and stooping a lit 
 tle lifted the body on his arms as though judging 
 of its weight and of his power to carry it. His 
 first instinct had been to lock the door of the room 
 behind him, and to go up to the convent, leaving 
 the dead girl where she was, whether he were 
 destined to come back that night, or never. A
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 203 
 
 moment's reflection had told him that if he did so 
 he must certainly be accused of having poisoned 
 her. He meant, if it were possible, to take Maria 
 Addolorata on board of the English man-of-war at 
 Civita Vecchia within twenty-four hours. So far 
 as the carrying off of a nun was concerned, he would 
 be safe on the ship; but if he were accused of 
 murder, no matter how falsely, the captain would 
 have a right to refuse his protection, even though 
 he was Dalrymple's friend. A little chain of cir 
 cumstances had led him to form a plan, in a flash, 
 which, if successfully carried out, would account 
 both for the disappearance of Annetta herself, and 
 of Maria Addolorata as well. 
 
 His eyelids contracted slightly, and his great 
 jaw set itself with the determination to overcome 
 all obstacles. In a few seconds he had divested 
 the dead girl of her heavy bodice and skirt and 
 carpet apron and heavy shoes. He rolled the 
 things into a bundle, tossed them into the labora 
 tory, locked the door of the latter, and stuck the 
 key into his pocket. He carefully stopped the 
 bottle containing the remainder of the prussiate of 
 potassium, and took that also. Then he rolled the 
 body up carefully in his great plaid, mummy-like, 
 and tied the ends of the shawl with shoe-laces 
 which he had among his things. He drew his soft 
 hat firmly down upon his forehead, and threw his 
 cloak over his left shoulder. He lifted the body
 
 204 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 off the bed. It was so stark that it stood upright 
 beside him. With his right arm round its waist, 
 he raised it so high that he could walk freely, and 
 he drew his wide cloak over it as well as he could, 
 and freed his left hand. He grasped the lamp as 
 he passed the table, listened at the door, though 
 he knew that the house was locked below, and 
 he cautiously and with difficulty descended the 
 stairs. 
 
 Just inside the street door of the staircase there 
 was a niche, as there is in almost all old Italian 
 houses. He set the body in it, and went into the 
 common room with the lamp. Taking the bottle 
 with the laudanum in it from his pocket, he filled 
 it more than half full of aniseed cordial, of which 
 a decanter stood with other liquors upon a side 
 board, as usual in such places. He returned it to 
 his pocket, and listened again. Then he assured 
 himself that he had all he needed the bottle, 
 money, his cloak, and a short, broad knife which 
 he always took with him on his walks, more for 
 the sake of cutting a loaf of bread if he stopped for 
 refreshment than for any other purpose. His 
 passport he had taken with his few other valuable 
 papers from the box. 
 
 He left the lamp on the table, and unlocked the 
 street door, though he did not pull it open. Brave 
 as he was, his heart beat fast, for it was the first 
 decisive moment. If Sora Nanna should come
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 205 
 
 home within the next sixty seconds, there would 
 be trouble. But there was no sound. 
 
 In the dark he went back to the door of the 
 staircase, unlocked it, and opened it wide, looking 
 out. The heavy clouds had so darkened the moon 
 light that he could hardly see. But the street was 
 quiet, for it was late, and there were no watchmen 
 in Subiaco at that time. A moment later, the door 
 was closed behind him, and he was disappearing 
 round the dark corner with Annetta's body in his 
 arms, all wrapped with himself in his great cloak. 
 
 It was a long and terrible climb. A weaker man 
 would have fainted or given it up long before 
 Dalrymple set his foot firmly upon the narrow 
 beaten path which ran along between the garden 
 wall at the back of the convent, and the precipitous 
 descent on his left. The sweat ran down over his 
 hard, pale face in the dark, as he shook off his 
 cloak and laid down his ghastly burden under the 
 deep shadow of the low postern. He shook his big 
 shoulders and wiped his brow, and stretched out 
 his long arms, doubling them and stretching them 
 again, for they were benumbed and asleep with the 
 protracted effort. But so far it was done, and no 
 one had met him. There had been little chance of 
 that, but he was glad, all the same. And if, down 
 at the house, any one went to his room, nothing 
 would be foiind. He had the key of the little 
 laboratory in his pocket. It would be long before
 
 206 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 they broke down the door and found Annetta's 
 skirt and bodice and shoes wrapped together in a 
 corner. 
 
 He went on up the ascent five minutes further, 
 walking as though on air now that he carried no 
 weight in his arms. At the top of the mule path 
 the lad was already waiting for him with the mule. 
 He told the little fellow that he might have to wait 
 half an hour longer, as he must go into the convent 
 to see the abbess before starting for Tivoli. He 
 bid him tie the mule by the halter to the low branch 
 of an overhanging fig-tree, and sit down to wait. 
 
 "It is a cool night," said Dalryrnple, though he 
 was hot enough himself. "Drink this, my boy." 
 
 He gave him the little bottle of aniseed, open 
 ing it as he did so. The boy smelt it and knew 
 that it was good, for it is a common drink in the 
 mountains. He drank half of it, pouring it into 
 his mouth with a gurgling sound. 
 
 " Drink it all, " said Dalrymple. " 1 brought it 
 for you." 
 
 The boy did not hesitate, but drained it to the 
 last drop, and handed the bottle back without a 
 word. Dalrymple made him sit down near the 
 mule's head, well aside from the path, in case any 
 one should pass. He knew that between the un 
 accustomed dose of spirits and the thirty -five drops 
 of opium, the lad would be sound asleep before 
 long. For the rest, there was nothing to be done
 
 CAS A SEACCIO. 207 
 
 but to trust to luck. He had done the impossible 
 already, so far as physical effort was concerned, 
 but Fortune must not thwart him at the end. If 
 she did, he had in his other pocket enough left of 
 what had killed Annetta to settle his own affairs 
 forever, and he might need it. At that moment 
 he was absolutely desperate. It would be ill for 
 any one who crossed his path that night.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DALRYMPLE wrapped his cloak about him once 
 more, as he turned away, and retraced his steps by 
 the garden wall. He glanced at the long dark thing 
 that lay in the shadow of the postern, as he went by. 
 It was not probable that it would be noticed, even 
 if any one should pass that way, which was un 
 likely, between ten o'clock at night and three*in the 
 morning. He went on without stopping, and in 
 three or four minutes he had gone round the con 
 vent to the main entrance, next to the church. He 
 rang the bell. The portress was expecting him, 
 and he was admitted without a word. 
 
 He found Maria Addolorata in the antechamber 
 of the abbess's apartment, veiled, and standing with 
 folded hands in the middle of the little hall. She 
 must have heard the distant clang of the bell, for 
 she was evidently waiting for him. 
 
 " Am I in time ? " he asked in a tone of anxiety. 
 
 She shook her head slowly. 
 
 " Is she dead ? " 
 
 " She was dead before I sent for you," answered 
 Maria Addolorata, in a low and almost solemn tone. 
 
 one knows it yet." 
 
 208
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 209 
 
 "I feared so," said Dalrymple. 
 
 He made a step towards the door of the parlour, 
 naturally expecting that Maria would speak with 
 him there, as usual. But she stepped back and 
 placed herself in his way. 
 
 " No," she said briefly. 
 
 " Why not ? " he asked in quick surprise. 
 
 She raised her finger to her veiled lips, and 
 then pointed to the other door, to warn him that 
 the portress was there and was almost within hear 
 ing. With quick suspicion he understood that she 
 was keeping him in the antechamber to defend her 
 self, that she had not been able to resist the desire 
 to see him once more, and that she intended this 
 to be their last meeting. 
 
 " Maria," he began, but he only pronounced her 
 name, and stopped short, for a great fear took him 
 by the throat. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, in her calm, low voice. 
 " I have made up my mind. I will not go. God 
 will perhaps forgive me what I have done. I will 
 pray for forgiveness. But I will not do more evil. 
 I will not bring shame upon my father's house, even 
 for love of you." 
 
 Her voice trembled a little at the last words. 
 Even veiled as she was, the vital magnetism of the 
 man was creeping upon her already. She had 
 resolved that she would see him once more, that 
 she would tell him the plain truth that was right, 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 that she would bid him farewell, and promise to 
 pray for him, as she must pray for herself. But 
 she had sworn to herself that she would not speak 
 of love. Yet with the first words she spoke, the 
 word and the vibration of love had come too. Her 
 hands disappeared in her sleeves, and her nails 
 pressed the flesh in the determination to be strong. 
 She little guessed the tremendous argument he had 
 in store. 
 
 " It is hard to speak here," he said. " Let us go 
 into the parlour." 
 
 She shook her head, and again moved backwards 
 a step, so that her shoulders were almost against 
 the door. 
 
 " You must say what you have to say here," she 
 answered after a moment's pause, and she felt 
 strong again. " For my part, I have spoken. May 
 God forget me in my utmost need if I go with 
 you." 
 
 Dalrymple seemed little moved by the solemn 
 invocation. It meant little enough to him. 
 
 "I must tell you a short story," he replied 
 quietly. "Unless I tell you, you cannot under 
 stand. I have set my life upon your love, and I 
 have gone so far that I cannot save my life except 
 by you my life and my honour. Will you listen 
 to me ? " 
 
 She nodded, and he heard her draw a quick 
 breath. Then he began his story, putting it to-
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 211 
 
 gether clearly, from the facts he knew, in very few 
 words. He told her how Annetta must have mis 
 taken the bottle on his table for camphor, and how 
 he had found her dead. Nothing would save him 
 from the accusation of having murdered the girl 
 but the absolute disappearance of her body. Maria 
 shuddered and turned her head quickly when he 
 told her that the body was lying under the pos 
 tern arch behind the garden wall. He told her, 
 too, that the boy was by this time asleep be 
 side the mule on the path beyond. Then he told 
 her of his plan, which was short, desperate, and 
 masterly. 
 
 " You must tell no one that the abbess is dead," 
 he said. " Go out through your cell into the gar 
 den, as soon as I am gone, and when I tap at the 
 postern open the door. Leave a lamp in your cell. 
 I will do the rest." 
 
 " What will you do ? " asked Maria, in a low and 
 wondering tone. 
 
 "You must lock the door of your cell on the 
 inside and leave the lamp there," said Dalrymple. 
 " You will wait for me in the garden by the gate. 
 I will carry the poor girl's body in and lay it in 
 your bed. Then I will set fire to the bed itself. 
 Of course there is an under-mattress of maize leaves 
 there always is. I will leave the lamp standing 
 on the floor by the bedside. I will shut the door 
 and come out to you, and I can manage to slip the
 
 212 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 bolt of the garden gate from the outside by prop 
 ping up the spring from within. You shall see." 
 
 " It is horrible ! " gasped Maria. " And I do not 
 see " 
 
 "It is simple, and nothing else can save my life. 
 Your cell is of course a mere stone vault, and the 
 fire cannot spread. The sisters are asleep, except 
 the portress, who will be far away. Long before 
 they break down your door, the body will be 
 charred by the fire beyond all recognition. They 
 will see the lamp standing close by, and will sup 
 pose that you lay down to rest, leaving the lamp 
 close to you too close; that the abbess died 
 while you were asleep, and that you had caught 
 fire before you waked; that you were burned to 
 death, in fact. The body will be buried as yours, 
 and you will be legally dead. Consequently there 
 will not be the slightest suspicion upon your good 
 name. As for me, it will be supposed that I have 
 procured other clothes for Annetta, thrown hers 
 into the laboratory and carried her off. In due 
 time I will send her father a large sum of money 
 without comment. If you refuse, I must either be 
 arrested, convicted, and sentenced to death for the 
 murder of a girl who killed herself without my 
 knowledge, or, as is probable, I shall go out now, 
 sit down in a quiet place, and be found dead in the 
 morning. It is certain death to me in either case. 
 It would be absolutely impossible for me to get rid
 
 CASA BRACCIG. 213 
 
 of the dead body without arousing suspicion. If 
 it is wrong to save oneself by burning a dead body, 
 it is not a great wrong, and I take it upon myself. 
 It is the only wrong in the matter, unless it is 
 wrong to love you and to be willing to die for you. 
 Do you understand me ? " 
 
 Leaning back against the door of the parlour, 
 Maria Addolorata had almost unconsciously lifted 
 her veil and was gazing into his eyes. The plan 
 was horrible, but she could not help admiring the 
 man's strength and daring. In his voice, even 
 when he told her that he loved her, there was that 
 quiet courage which imposes itself upon men and 
 women alike. The whole situation was as clear as 
 day to her in a moment, for all his calculations 
 were absolutely correct, the fire-proof vault of 
 the cell, the certainty that the body would be taken 
 for hers, above all, the assurance of her own sup 
 posed death, with the utter freedom from suspicion 
 which it would mean for her ever afterwards. Was 
 she not to be buried with Christian burial, mourned 
 as dead, and freed in one hour from all the conse 
 quences of her life ? It was masterly, though 
 there was a horror in it. 
 
 She loved him more than her own soul. It was 
 the fear of bringing shame upon her father and 
 mother that had held her, far more than any spirit 
 ual dread. It was not strange that she should 
 waver a^ain when he had unfolded his scheme.
 
 214 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 She turned, opened the door, and led him into 
 the parlour, where the silver lamp was burning 
 brightly. 
 
 " You must tell it all again," she said, still stand 
 ing. " I must be quite sure that I understand." 
 
 He knew well enough that she had finally yielded, 
 since she went so far. In his mind he quickly ran 
 over the details of the plan once more, and men 
 tally settled what still remained to be decided. 
 But since she wished it, he went over all he had 
 said already. Being able to speak in his natural 
 voice without fear of being overheard by the por 
 tress, and feeling sure of the result, he spoke far 
 more easily and more eloquently. Before he had 
 finished he was holding her hand in his, and she 
 was gazing intently into his eyes. 
 
 " It is life or death for me," he said, when he had 
 told her everything. " Which shall it be ? " 
 
 She was silent for a moment. Then her strong 
 mouth smiled strangely. 
 
 "It shall be life for you, if I lose my soul for 
 it," she said. 
 
 She felt the quick thrill and pressure of his 
 hand, and all the man's tremendous energy was 
 alive again. 
 
 "Then let us do it quickly," he answered. "I 
 will go out with the portress. Go to your cell be-, 
 fore we reach the end of the corridor, and shut the 
 door with some noise. She will remember it after-
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 215 
 
 wards. Wait at the garden gate till I tap softly, 
 and leave the rest to me. There is no danger. 
 Do not be afraid." 
 
 " Afraid ! " she exclaimed proudly. " How little 
 you know me ! It never was fear that held me. 
 Besides with you ! " 
 
 The two last words told him more than all she 
 had ever said before, and for the first time he 
 wholly trusted her. Besides, it was to be only for 
 a few minutes, while he went out by the front gate 
 and walked round to the back of the convent. 
 The plan was so well conceived that it could not 
 fail when put into execution. 
 
 They shook hands, as two people who have agreed 
 to do a desperate deed, each for the other's sake. 
 Then as their grasp loosened, Dalrymple turned 
 towards the door, but turned again almost instantly 
 and took her in his arms, and kissed her as men 
 kiss women they love when their lives are in the 
 balance. Then he went out, passed throiigh the 
 antechamber, and found the portress waiting for 
 him as usual. She took up her little lamp and 
 led the way in silence. A moment later he heard 
 Maria come out and enter her cell, closing the 
 door loudly behind her. 
 
 " Her most reverend excellency is in no danger 
 now," he said to the portress, with Scotch veracity. 
 
 "Sister Maria Addolorata may then rest a little," 
 answered the lay sister, who rarely spoke.
 
 216 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 " Precisely so," said Dalrymple, drily. 
 
 Five minutes later he was at the garden gate, 
 tapping softly. Immediately the door yielded to 
 his gentle pressure, for Maria had already un 
 fastened the lock within. 
 
 " Stand aside a little," said Dalrymple, in a whis 
 per. " You need not see it is not a pretty sight. 
 Keep the door shut till I come back. Where is 
 your cell ? " 
 
 She pointed to a door that was open above the 
 level of the garden. A little light came out. 
 With womanly caution she had set the lamp in the 
 corner behind the door when she had opened it, so 
 as to show as little as possible from without. 
 
 She turned her head away as he passed her with 
 his heavy burden, treading softly upon the hard, 
 dry ground. But he was not half across the garden 
 before she looked after him. She could not help 
 it. The dark thing he carried in his arms at 
 tracted her, and a shudder ran through her. She 
 closed the gate, and stood with her hand on the lock. 
 
 It seemed to her that he was gone an intermi 
 nable time. Though the moon was now high, the 
 clouds were so black that the garden was almost 
 quite dark. Suddenly she heard his step, and he 
 was nearer than she thought. 
 
 "It is burning well," he said with grim brevity. 
 
 He stooped and looked closely in the dimness at 
 the old-fashioned lock. It was made as he sup-
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 217 
 
 posed and could be easily slipped from without. 
 He found a pebble under his foot, raised the 
 spring, and placed the small stone under it, after 
 examining the position of the cracks in the wood, 
 which were many. 
 
 " There is plenty of time, now," he said, and he 
 gently pushed her out upon the narrow walk, draw 
 ing the door after him. 
 
 With his big knife, working through the widest 
 crack he teazed the bolt into the socket. Then 
 with his shoulder he softly shook the whole door. 
 He heard the spring fall into its place, as the pebble 
 dropped upon the dry ground. 
 
 "No human being can suspect that the door has 
 been opened," he said. 
 
 He wrapped her in his long cloak, standing be 
 side her under the wall. Very gently he pushed 
 the veil and bands away from her golden hair. 
 She helped him, and he kissed the soft locks. 
 Then about her head he laid his plaid in folds and 
 drew it forward over her shoulders. She let him 
 do it, not realizing what service the shawl had but 
 lately done. 
 
 They walked forward. The boy was fast asleep 
 and did not move. The mule stamped a little as 
 they came up. Dalrymple lifted Maria upon the 
 pack-saddle, sideways, and stretched the packing- 
 cords behind her back. 
 
 " Hold on," he said. " I will lead the mule."
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 219 
 
 home-coming when he found that his daughter was 
 gone, and unconsciously he repeated the very words 
 she had last spoken when she was dying in Dalrym- 
 ple's room all alone. 
 
 " An evil death on you and all your house ! " he 
 said, shaking his fist at the door of the room. 
 
 And Stefanone swore within himself solemnly 
 that the Englishman should pay the price. And he 
 and his paid it in full, and more also, after years 
 had passed, even to generations then unborn. 
 
 This is the first act, as it were, of all the story, 
 and between this one and the beginning of the next 
 a few years must pass quickly, if not altogether in 
 silence.
 
 PART II. 
 
 GLORIA DALRYMPLE.
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 IN the year 1861 Donna Francesca Campodonico 
 was already a widow. Her husband, Don Girolamo 
 Campodonico, had died within two years of their 
 marriage, which had been one of interest and con 
 venience so far as he had been concerned, for Donna 
 Francesca was rich, whereas he had been but a 
 younger son and poor. His elder brother was the 
 Duca di Norba, the father of another Girolamo, 
 who succeeded him many years later, of Gianforte 
 Campodonico, and of the beautiful Bianca, in whose 
 short, sad life Pietro Ghisleri afterwards held so 
 large a part. But of these latter persons, some 
 were then not yet born, and others were in their 
 infancy, so that they play no part in this portion of 
 the present history. 
 
 Donna Francesca was of the great Braccio family, 
 the last of a collateral branch. She had inherited 
 a very considerable estate, which, if she had no 
 descendants, was to revert to the Princes of Ge- 
 rano. She had married Don Girolamo in obedi 
 ence to her guardians' advice, but not at all against 
 her will, and she had become deeply attached to 
 him during the short two years of their married 
 223
 
 224 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 life. He had never been strong, since his child 
 hood, his constitution having been permanently 
 injured by a violent attack of malarious fever 
 when he had been a mere boy. A second fever, 
 even more severe than the first, caught on a shoot 
 ing expedition near Fiunricino, had killed him, and 
 Donna Francesca was left a childless widow, in full 
 possession of her own fortune and of a little more 
 in the shape of a small jointure. It was thought 
 that she would marry again before very long, but 
 it was too soon to expect this as yet. 
 
 Among her possessions as the last of her branch 
 of the Braccio family, of which the main line, how 
 ever, was sufficiently well represented, was the 
 small but beautiful palace in which she now lived 
 alone. It was situated between the Capitoline Hill 
 and the Tiber, surrounded on three sides by dark 
 and narrow streets, but facing a small square in 
 which there was an ancient church. When it is 
 said that the palace was a small one, its dimensions 
 are compared with the great Roman palaces, more 
 than one of which could easily lodge a thousand 
 persons. It was built on the same general plan as 
 most of them, with a ground floor having heavily 
 barred windows ; a state apartment in the first 
 story, with three stone balconies on the front; a 
 very low second story above that, but not coex 
 tensive with it, because two of the great state 
 rooms were higher than the rest and had clere-
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 225 
 
 story windows ; and last of all, a third story con 
 sisting of much higher rooms than the second, and 
 having a spacious attic under the sloping roof, which 
 was, of course, covered with red tiles in the old 
 fashion. The palace, at that time known as the 
 Palazzo, or < Palazzetto,' Borgia, was externally a 
 very good specimen of Eenascence architecture of 
 the period when the florid, ' barocco ' style had not 
 yet got the upper hand in Eome. The great arched 
 entrance for carriages was well proportioned, the 
 stone carvings were severe rather than graceful, 
 the cornices had great nobility both of proportion 
 and design. The lower story was built of rough- 
 faced blocks of travertine stone, above which the 
 masonry was smooth. The whole palace was of 
 that warm, time-toned colour, which travertine 
 takes with age, and which is, therefore, peculiar 
 to old Koman buildings. 
 
 Within, though it could not be said that any part 
 had exactly fallen to decay, th^re were many rooms 
 which had been long disused, in which the old fres 
 coes and architectural designs in grey and white, 
 and bits of bold perspective painted in the vaults 
 and embrasures, were almost obliterated by time, 
 and in which such furniture as there was could not 
 survive much longer. About on?-half of the state 
 apartment, comprising, perhaps, fifte3n or twenty 
 rooms, large and small, had been occupied by Donna 
 Francesca and her husband, and she now lived in 
 
 TOL. I. Q
 
 226 CA8A BRACCIO. 
 
 them alone. In that part of the palace there was 
 a sort of quiet and stately luxury, the result of her 
 own taste, which was strongly opposed to the gaudy 
 fashions then introduced from Paris at the height 
 of the Second Empire's importance. Girolamo 
 Campodonico had been aware that his young wife's 
 judgment was far better than his own in artistic 
 matters, and had left all such questions entirely 
 to her. 
 
 She had taken much pleasure in unearthing from 
 attics and disused rooms all such objects as pos 
 sessed any intrinsic artistic value, such as old carved 
 furniture, tapestries, and the like. Whatever she 
 found worth keeping she had caused to be restored 
 just so far as to be useful, and she had known how to 
 supply the deficiencies with modern material in such 
 a way as not to destroy the harmony of the whole. 
 
 It should be sufficiently clear from these facts 
 that Donna Francesca Campodonico was a woman 
 of taste and culture, in the modern sense. Indeed, 
 the satisfaction of her tastes occupied a much more 
 important place in her existence than her social 
 
 obligations, and had a far greater influence upon 
 
 - 
 her subsequent life. Her favourite scheme was to 
 
 make her palace at all points as complete within 
 as its architect had made it outside, and she had it 
 in her power to succeed in doing so. She was not, 
 as some might think, a great exception in those 
 days. Within the narrow limits of a certain class,
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 227 
 
 in which the hereditary possession of masterpieces 
 has established artistic intelligence as a stamp of 
 caste, no people, until recently, have had a better 
 taste than the Italians ; as no people, beyond these 
 limits, have ever had a worse. There was nothing 
 very unusual in Donna Francesca's views, except her 
 constant and industrious energy in carrying them 
 out. Even this might be attributed to the fact 
 that she had inherited a beautiful but dilapidated 
 palace, which she was desirous of improving until, 
 on a small scale, it should be like the houses of 
 the great old families, such as the Saracinesca, 
 the Savelli, the Frangipani, and her own near 
 relatives, the Princes of Gerano. 
 
 She had an invaluable ally in her artistic enter 
 prises in the person of an artist, who, in a sort of 
 way, was considered as belonging to Casa Braccio, 
 though his extraordinary talent had raised him 
 far above the position of a dependent of the 
 family, in which he had been born as the son of 
 the steward of the ancient castle and estate of 
 Gerano. As constantly happened in those days, 
 the clever boy had been noticed by the Prince, 
 or, perhaps, thrust into notice by his father, 
 who was reasonably proud of him. The lad had 
 been taken out of his surroundings and thoroughly 
 educated for the priesthood in Eome, but by the 
 time he had attained to the age necessary for ordi 
 nation, his artistic gifts had developed to such an
 
 228 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 extent that in spite of his father's disappointment, 
 even the old Prince the brother of Sister Maria 
 Addolorata advised Angelo Reanda to give up 
 the Church, and to devote himself altogether to 
 painting. 
 
 Young Reanda had been glad enough of the 
 change in his prospects. Many eminent Italians 
 have begun life in a similar way. Cardinal Anto- 
 nelli was not the only one, for there have been 
 Italian prime ministers as well as dignitaries of 
 the Church, whose origin was as humble and who 
 owed their subsequent distinction to the kindly 
 interest bestowed on them by nobles on whose 
 estates their parents were mere peasants, very far 
 inferior in station to Angelo Reanda's father, a 
 man of a certain education, occupying a position 
 of trust and importance. 
 
 Nor was Reanda's priestly education anything 
 but an advantage to him, so far as his career was 
 concerned, however much it had raised him above 
 the class in which he had been born. So far as 
 latinity and rhetoric were to be counted he was 
 better educated than his father's master ; for with 
 the same advantages he had greater talents, greater 
 origkiaiity, and greater industry. As an artist, his 
 mental culture made him the intellectual superior 
 of most of his contemporaries. As a man, ten 
 years of close association with the sons of gentle 
 men had easily enough made a gentleman of one
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 229 
 
 whose instincts were naturally as refined as his 
 character was sensitive and upright. 
 
 Donna Francesca, as the last of her branch of 
 the family and an orphan at an early age, had of 
 course been brought up in the house of her rela 
 tives of Gerano, and from her childhood had known 
 Keanda's father, and Angelo himself, who was fully 
 ten years older than she. Some of his first paint 
 ings had been done in the great Braccio palace, and 
 many a time, as a mere girl, she had watched him 
 at his work, perched upon a scaffolding, as he 
 decorated the vault of the main hall. She could 
 not remember the time when she had not heard 
 him spoken of as a young genius, and she could 
 distinctly recall the discussion which had taken 
 place when his fate had been decided for him, and 
 when he had been at last told that he might become 
 an artist if he chose. At that time she had looked 
 upon him with a sort of wondering admiration in 
 which there was much real friendly feeling, and as 
 she grew up and saw what he could do, and learned 
 to appreciate it, she silently determined that he 
 should one day help her to restore the dilapidated 
 Palazzetto Borgia, where her father and mother 
 had died in her infancy, and which she loved with 
 that sort of tender attachment which children 
 brought up by distant relations often feel for what 
 ever has belonged to their own dimly remembered 
 parents.
 
 230 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 There was a natural intimacy between the young 
 girl and the artist. Long ago she had played at 
 ball with him in the great courtyard of the Gerano 
 castle, when he had been at home for his holidays, 
 wearing a black cassock and a three-cornered hat, 
 like a young priest. Then, all at once, instead of 
 a priest he had been a painter, dressed like other 
 men and working in the house in which she lived. 
 She had played with his colours, had scrawled 
 with his charcoals upon the white plastered walls, 
 had asked him questions, and had talked with him 
 about the famous pictures in the Braccio gallery. 
 And all this had happened not once, but many 
 times in the course of years. Then she had un 
 folded to him her schemes about her own little 
 palace, and he had promised to help her, by and 
 bye, half jesting, half in earnest. She would give 
 him rooms in the upper story to live in, she said, 
 disposing of everything beforehand. He should 
 be close to his work, and have it under his hand 
 always until it was finished. And when there was 
 no more to do, he might still live there and have 
 his studio at the top of the old house, with an 
 entrance of his own, leading by a narrow staircase 
 to on.e of the dark streets at the back. She had 
 noticed all sorts of peculiarities of the building in 
 her occasional visits to it with the governess, as, 
 for instance, that there was a convenient interior 
 staircase leading from the great hall to the upper
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 231 
 
 story, by a door once painted like the wall, and 
 hard to find, but now hanging on its hinges and 
 hideously apparent. The great hall must all be 
 painted again, and Angelo could live overhead and 
 come down to his work by those steps. With 
 childish pleasure she praised her own ingenuity in 
 so arranging matters beforehand. Angelo was to 
 help her in all she did, until the Palazzetto Borgia 
 should be as beautiful as the Palazzo Braccio 
 itself, though of course it was much smaller. 
 Then she scrawled on the walls again, trying to 
 explain to him, in childishly futile, sketches, her 
 ideas of decoration, and he would come down from 
 his scaffold and do his best with a few broad lines 
 to show her what she had really imagined, till she 
 clapped her small, dusty hands with delight and 
 was ultimately carried off by her governess to be 
 made presentable for her daily drive in the Villa 
 Borghese with the Princess of Gerano. 
 
 As a girl Francesca had the rare gift of seeing 
 clearly in her mind what she wanted, and at last 
 she had found herself possessed of the power to 
 carry out her intentions. As a matter of course 
 she had taken Reanda into her confidence as her 
 chief helper, and the intimacy which dated from 
 her childhood had continued on very much the same 
 footing. His talent had grown and been consoli 
 dated by ten years of good work, and she, as a 
 young married woman, had understood what she
 
 232 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 had meant when she had been a child. Reanda was 
 now admittedly, in his department, the first painter 
 in Rome, and that was fame in those days. His 
 high education and general knowledge of all artistic 
 matters made him an interesting companion in 
 such work as Francesca had undertaken, and he 
 had, moreover, a personal charm of manner and 
 voice which had always attracted her. 
 
 No one, perhaps, would have called him a hand 
 some man, and at this time he was no longer in 
 his first youth. He was tall, thin, and very dark, 
 though his black beard had touches of a deep gold- 
 brown colour in it, which contrasted a little with 
 Ms dusky complexion. He had a sad face, with 
 deep, lustreless, thoughtful eyes, which seemed to 
 peer inward rather than outward. In the olive 
 skin there were heavy brown shadows, and the 
 bony prominence of the brow left hollows at the 
 temples, from which the fine black hair grew with 
 a backward turn which gave something unusual 
 to his expression. The aquiline nose which charac 
 terizes so many Roman faces, was thin and delicate, 
 with sensitive nostrils that often moved when he 
 was speaking. The eyebrows were irregular and 
 thick, extending in a dark down beyond the lower 
 angles of the forehead, and almost meeting between 
 the eyes ; but the somewhat gloomy expression 
 which this gave him was modified by a certain 
 sensitive grace of the mouth, little hidden by the
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 233 
 
 thin black moustache or by the beard, which did 
 not grow up to the lower lip, though it was thick 
 and silky from the chin downwards. 
 
 It was a thoughtful face, but there was creative 
 power in the high forehead, as there was direct 
 energy in the long arms and lean, nervous hands. 
 Donna Francesca liked to watch him at his work, 
 as she had watched him when she was a little girl. 
 Now and then, but very rarely, the lustreless eyes 
 lighted up, just before he put in some steady, 
 determining stroke which brought out the mean 
 ing of the design. There was a quick fire in them 
 then, at the instant when the main idea was out 
 wardly expressed, and if she spoke to him inadver 
 tently at such a moment, he never answered her at 
 once, and sometimes forgot to answer her at all. 
 For his art was always first with him. She knew 
 it, and she liked him the better for it. 
 
 The intimacy between the great lady and the 
 artist was, indeed, founded upon this devotion of 
 his to his painting, but it was sustained by a sort 
 of community of interests extending far back into 
 darker ages, when his forefathers had been bonds 
 men to her ancestors in the days of serfdom. He 
 had grown up with the clearly defined sensation of 
 belonging with, if not to, the house of Braccio. 
 His father had been a trusty and trusted dependent 
 of the family, and he had imbibed as a mere child 
 its hereditary likes and dislikes, its traditions wise
 
 234 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 and foolish, together with an indomitable pride in 
 its high fortunes and position in the world. And 
 Francesca herself was a true Braccio, though she 
 was descended from a collateral branch, and, next 
 to the Prince of Gerano, had been to Eeanda by 
 far the most important person bearing the name. 
 She had admired him when she had been a child, 
 had encouraged him as she grew up, and now she 
 provided his genius with employment, and gave 
 him her friendship as a solace and delight both in 
 work and idleness. It is said that only Italians 
 can be admitted to such a position with the cer 
 tainty that they will not under any circumstances 
 presume upon it. To Angelo Reanda it meant 
 much more than to most men who could have been 
 placed as he was. His genius raised him far above 
 the class in which he had been born, and his educa 
 tion, with his natural and acquired refinement, 
 placed him on a higher level than the majority of 
 other Eoman artists, who, in the Rome of that day, 
 inhabited a Bohemia of their own which has com 
 pletely disappeared. Their ideas and conversation, 
 when they were serious, interested him, but their 
 manners were not his, and their gaiety was frankly 
 distasteful to him. He associated with them as an 
 artist, but not as a companion, and he particularly 
 disliked their wives and daughters, who, in their 
 turn, found him too 'serious' for their society, to 
 use the time-honoured Italian expression. Never-
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 235 
 
 theless, his natural gentleness of disposition made 
 him treat them all alike with quiet courtesy, and 
 when, as often happened, he was obliged to be in 
 their company, he honestly endeavoured to be one 
 of them as far as he could. 
 
 On the other hand, he had no footing in the 
 society to which Francesca belonged, but for which 
 she cared so little. There were, indeed, one or 
 two houses where he was received, as he was at 
 Casa Braccio, in a manner which, for the very 
 reason that it was familiar, proved his' social infe 
 riority where he addressed the head of the house 
 as ' Excellency ' and was called ' Eeanda ' by every 
 body, elders and juniors alike, where he was appreci 
 ated as an artist, respected as a man, and welcomed 
 occasionally as a guest when no other outsider 
 was present, but where he was not looked upon as 
 a personage to be invited even with the great 
 throng on state occasions. He was as far from 
 receiving such cold acknowledgments of social 
 existence as those who received them and nothing 
 else were distantly removed from intimacy on an 
 equal footing. 
 
 He did not complain of such treatment, nor even 
 inwardly resent it. The friendliness shown him 
 was as real as the kindness he had received through 
 out his early youth from the Prince of Gerano, and 
 he was not the man to undervalue it because he 
 had not a drop of gentle blood in his veins. But
 
 236 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 his refined uature craved refined intercourse, and 
 preferred solitude to what he could get in . any 
 lower sphere. The desire for the atmosphere of 
 the uppermost class, rather than the mere wish to 
 appear as one of its members, often belongs to the 
 artistic temperament, and many artists are unjustly 
 disliked by their fellows and pointed at as snobs 
 because they prefer, as an atmosphere, inane ele 
 gance to inelegant intellectuality. It is often for 
 gotten by those who calumniate them that hered 
 itary elegance, no matter how empty-headed, is 
 the result of an hereditary cultivation of what 
 is thought beautiful, and that the vainest, silliest 
 woman who dresses well by instinct is an artist in 
 her way. 
 
 In Francesca Campodonico there was much more 
 than such superficial taste, and in her Reanda found 
 the only true companion he had ever known. He 
 might have been for twenty years the intimate 
 friend of all Roman society without meeting such 
 another, and he knew it, and appreciated his good 
 fortune. For he was not naturally a dissatisfied 
 man, nor at all given to complain of his lot. Few 
 men are, who have active, creative genius, and 
 whose profession gives them all the scope they 
 need. Of late years, too, Francesca had treated 
 him with a sort of deference which he got from no 
 one else in the world. He realized that she did, 
 without attempting to account for the fact, which,
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 237 
 
 indeed, depended on something past his compre 
 hension. 
 
 He felt for her something like veneration. The 
 word does not express exactly the attitude of his 
 mind towards her, but no other defines his position 
 so well. He was not in love with her in the Italian 
 sense of the expression, for he did not conceive it 
 possible that she should ever love him^ whereas he 
 told himself that he might possibly marry, if he 
 found a wife to his taste, and be in love with his 
 wife without in the least infringing upon his devo 
 tion to Donna Francesca. 
 
 That she was young and lovely, if not beautiful, 
 he saw and knew. He even admitted unconsciously 
 that if she had been an old woman he could not 
 have ' venerated ' her as he did, though veneration, 
 as such, is the due of the old rather than of the 
 young. Her spiritual eyes and virginal face were 
 often before him in his dreams and waking thoughts. 
 There was a maidenlike modesty, as it were, even 
 about her graceful bodily self, which belonged, in 
 his imagination, to a saint upon an altar, rather 
 than to a statue upon a pedestal. There was 
 something in the sweep of her soft dark brown 
 hair which suggested that it would be sacrilege 
 and violence for a man's hand to touch it. There 
 was a dewy delicacy on her young lips, as though 
 they could kiss nothing more earthly than a newly 
 opened flower, already above the earth, but not
 
 238 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 yet touched by the sun. There was a thoughtful 
 turn of modelling in the smooth, white forehead, 
 which it was utterly beyond Reanda's art to repro 
 duce, often as he had tried. He thought a great 
 sculptor might succeed, and it was the one thing 
 which made him sometimes wish that he had taken 
 the chisel for his tool, instead of the brush. 
 
 She was never considered one of the great 
 beauties of Rome. She had not the magnificent 
 presence and colouring of her kinswoman, Maria 
 Addolorata, whose tragic death in the convent of 
 Subiaco a fictitious tragedy accepted as real by 
 all Roman society had given her a special place 
 in the history of the Braccio family. She had not 
 the dark and queenly splendour of Corona d'Astra- 
 dente, her contemporary and the most beautiful 
 woman of her time. But she had, for those who 
 loved her, something which was quite her own and 
 which placed her beyond them in some ways and, 
 in any case, out of competition for the homage re 
 ceived by the great beauties. No one recognized 
 this more fully than Angelo Reauda, and he would 
 as soon have thought of being in love with her, as 
 men love women, as he would have imagined that 
 his father, for instance, could have loved Maria 
 Addolorata, the Carmelite nun. 
 
 The one human point in his devoted adoration 
 lay in his terror lest Francesca Campodonico should 
 die young and leave him to grow old without her. 
 He sometimes told her so.
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 289 
 
 "You should marry," she answered one day, 
 when they were together in the great hall which 
 he was decorating. 
 
 She was still dressed in black, and as she spoke, 
 he turned and saw the outline of her small pure 
 face against the high back of the old chair in 
 which she was sitting. It was so white just then 
 that he fancied he saw in it that fatal look which 
 belonged to some of the Braccio family, and which 
 was always spoken of as having been one of Maria 
 Addolorata's chief characteristics. He looked at 
 her long and sadly, leaning against an upright of 
 his scaffolding as he stood on the floor near her, 
 holding his brushes in his hand. 
 
 " I do not think I shall ever marry," he answered 
 at last, looking down and idly mixing two colours 
 on his palette. 
 
 "Why not ? " she asked quickly. " I have heard 
 you say that you might, some day." 
 
 " Some day, some day and then, all at once, 
 the ' some day ' is past, and is not any more in the 
 future. Why should I marry ? I am well enough 
 as I am ; there would only be unhappiness." 
 
 " Do you think that every one who marries must 
 be unhappy ? " she asked. " You are cynical. I 
 did not know it." 
 
 " No. I am not cynical. I say it only of myself. 
 There are many reasons. I could not marry such 
 a woman as I should wish to have for my wife.
 
 240 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 You must surely understand that. It is very easy 
 to understand." 
 
 He made as though he would go up the ladder 
 to his littl'3 platform and continue his work. But 
 she stopped him. 
 
 " What is the use of hurting your eyes ? " she 
 asked. " It is late, and the light is bad. Besides, 
 I am not so sure that I understand what you mean, 
 though you say that it is so easy. We have never 
 talked about it much." 
 
 He laid his palette and brushes upon a ragged 
 straw chair and sat down upon another, not far 
 from her. There was no other furniture in the 
 great vaulted hall, and the brick pavement was 
 bare, and splashed in many places with white plas 
 ter. Fresco-painting can only be done upon stucco 
 just laid on, while it is still moist, and a mason 
 came early every day and prepared as much of the 
 wall as Reanda could cover before night. If he 
 did not paint over the whole surface, the remainder 
 was chipped away and freshly laid over on the fol 
 lowing morning. 
 
 The evening light already reddened the tall 
 western windows, for it was autumn, and the days 
 were Shortening quickly. Reanda knew that he 
 could not do much more, and sat down, to answer 
 Francesca's question, if he could. 
 
 "I am not a gentlemin, as you understand the 
 word," he said slowly. " And yet I am certainly
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 241 
 
 not of the class to which my father belonged. My 
 position, is not defined. 1 could not marry a woman 
 of your class, and I should not care to marry one 
 of any other. That is all. Is it not clear ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Francesca. " It is clear 
 enough. But " 
 
 She checked herself, and he looked into her face, 
 expecting her to continue. But she said nothing 
 more. 
 
 "You were going to find an objection to what I 
 said," he observed. 
 
 " No ; I was not. I will say it, for you will 
 understand me. What you tell me is true enough, 
 and I am sorry that it should be so. Is it not to 
 some extent my fault ? " 
 
 " Your fault ? " cried Reanda, leaning forward 
 and looking into her eyes. " How ? I do not 
 understand." 
 
 " I blame myself," answered Francesca, quietly. 
 "I have kept you out of the world, perhaps, and 
 in many ways. Here you live, day after day, as 
 though nothing else existed for you. In the morn 
 ing, long before I am awake, you come down your 
 staircase through that door, and go up that ladder, 
 and work, and work, and work, all day long, until it 
 is dark, as you have worked to-day, and yesterday, 
 and for months. And when you might and should 
 be out of doors, or associating with other people, 
 as just now, I sit and talk to you and take up all 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 your leisure time. It is wrong. You ought to see 
 more of other men and women. Do men of genius 
 never marry ? It seems to me absurd ! " 
 
 " Genius ! " exclaimed Reanda, shaking his head 
 sadly. " Do not use the word of me." 
 
 " I will do as other people do," answered "Fran- 
 cesca. " But that is not the question. The truth 
 is that you live pent up in this old house, like a 
 bird in a cage. I want you to spread your wings." 
 
 " To go away for a time ? " asked Reanda, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I did not say that. Perhaps I should. Yes, 
 if you could enjoy a journey, go away for a 
 time." 
 
 She spoke with some hesitation and rather ner 
 vously, for he had said more than she had meant 
 to propose. 
 
 "Just to make a change," she added, after a 
 moment's pause, as he said nothing. "You ought 
 to see more of other people, as I said. You ought 
 to mix with the world. You ought at least to 
 offer yourself the chance of marrying, even if you 
 think that you might not find a wife to your 
 taste." 
 
 " If I do not find one here " He did not com 
 plete the sentence, but smiled a little. 
 
 " Must you marry a Roman princess ? " she 
 asked. " What should you say to a foreigner ? 
 Is that impossible, too?"
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 243 
 
 "It would matter little where she came from, 
 if I wished to marry her," he answered. "But I 
 like my life as it is. Why should I try to change 
 it? I am happy as I am. I work, and I enjoy 
 working. I work for you, and you are satisfied. 
 It seems to me that there is nothing more to be 
 said. Why are you so anxious that I should 
 marry?" 
 
 Donna Francesca laughed softly, but without 
 much mirth. 
 
 "Because I think that in some way it is my 
 fault if you have not married," she said. "And 
 besides, I was thinking of a young girl whom I 
 met, or rather, saw, the other day, and who might 
 please you. She has the most beautiful voice in 
 the world, I think. She could make her fortune 
 as a singer, and I believe she wishes to try it. 
 But her father objects. They are foreigners 
 English or Scotch it is the same. She is a mere 
 child, they say, but she seems to be quite grown 
 up. There is something strange about them. He 
 is a man of science, I am told, but I fancy he is 
 one of those English enthusiasts about Italian 
 liberty. His name is Dalrymple." 
 
 "What a name!" Reanda laughed. "I suppose 
 they have come to spend the winter in Rome," he 
 added. 
 
 " Not at all. I hear that they have lived here 
 for years. But one never meets the foreigners,
 
 244 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 unless they wish to be in society. His wife died 
 young, they say, and this girl is his only daughter. 
 I wish you could hear her sing ! " 
 
 " For that matter, I wish I might," said E/eanda, 
 who was passionately fond of music.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 SEVENTEEN years had scored their account on 
 Angus Dalrymple's hard face, and one great sor 
 row had set an even deeper mark upon him a 
 sorrow so deep and so overwhelming that none had 
 ever dared to speak of it to him. And he was not 
 the man to bear any affliction resignedly, to feed 
 on memory, and find rest in the dreams of what 
 had been. Sullenly and fiercely rebellious against 
 his fate, he went down life, rather than through 
 it, savage and silent, for the most part, Nero-like 
 in his wish that he could end the world at a single 
 blow, himself and all that lived! Yet it was 
 characteristic of the man that he had not chosen 
 suicide as a means of escape, as he would have 
 done in his earlier years, if Maria Addolorata had 
 failed him. It seemed cowardly now, and he had 
 never done anything cowardly in his life. Through 
 his grief the sense of responsibility had remained 
 with him, and had kept him alive. He looked 
 upon his existence not as a state from which he 
 had a right to escape, but as a personal enemy to 
 be fought with, to be despised, to be ill-treated 
 barbarously, perhaps, but still as an enemy to 
 245
 
 246 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 murder whom in cold blood would be an act of 
 cowardice. 
 
 There was little more than the mere sense of the 
 responsibility, for he did little enough to fulfil his 
 obligations. His wife had borne him a daughter, 
 but it was not in Angus Dalrymple's nature to sub 
 stitute one being in his heart for another. He could 
 not love the girl simply because her mother was 
 dead. He could only spoil her, with a rough idea 
 that she should be spared all suffering as much as 
 possible, but that if he gave her what she wanted, 
 he had done all that could be expected of him. 
 For the rest, he lived his own life. 
 
 He had a good intelligence and superior gifts, 
 together with considerable powers of intellectual 
 acquisition. He had believed in his youth that he 
 was destined to make great discoveries, and his 
 papers afterwards showed that he was really on 
 the track of great and new things. But with his 
 bereavement, all ambition as well as all curiosity 
 disappeared in one day from his character. Since 
 then he had never gone back to his studies, which 
 disgusted him and seemed stale and flat. He 
 grew rudely dogmatical when scientific matters 
 were discussed before him, as he had become rough, 
 tyrannical, and almost violent in his ordinary deal 
 ings with the world, whenever he found any oppo 
 sition to his opinions or his will. The only excep 
 tion he made was in his treatment of his daughter,
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 247 
 
 whom he indulged in every way except in her 
 desire to be a public singer. It seemed to him 
 that to give her everything she wanted was to ful 
 fil all his obligations to her ; in the one question 
 of appearing on the stage he was inflexible. He 
 simply refused to hear of it, rarely giving her any 
 reasons beyond the ordinary ones which present 
 themselves in such cases, and which were far from 
 answering the impulse of the girl's genius. 
 
 They had called her Gloria in the days of their 
 passionate happiness. The sentimental name had 
 meant a great deal to them, for Dalrymple had 
 at that time developed that sort of uncouth senti 
 mentality which is in strong men like a fungus on 
 an oak, and disgusts them afterwards unless they 
 are able to forget it. The two had felt that the 
 glory of life was in the child, and they had named 
 her for it, as it were. 
 
 Years afterwards Dalrymple brought the little 
 girl to Rome, drawn back irresistibly to the place 
 by that physical association of impressions which 
 moves such men strongly. They had remained, 
 keeping from year to year a lodging Dalrymple 
 had hired, at first hired for a few months. He 
 never went to Subiaco. 
 
 He gave Gloria teachers, the best that could be 
 found, and there were good instructors in those 
 days when people were willing to take time in 
 learning. In music she had her mother's voice
 
 248 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 and talent. Her father gave her a musician's 
 opportunities, and it was no wonder that she should 
 dream of conquering Europe from behind the foot 
 lights as Grisi had done, and as Patti was just 
 about to do in her turn. 
 
 She and her father spoke English together, but 
 Gloria was bilingual, as children of mixed marriages 
 often are, speaking English and Italian with equal 
 ease. Dalrymple found a respectable middle-aged 
 German governess who came daily and spent most 
 of the day with Gloria, teaching her and walking 
 with her worshipping her, too, with that curious 
 faculty for idealizing the very human, which be 
 longs to German governesses when they like their 
 pupils. 
 
 Dalrymple led his own life. Had he chosen to 
 mix in Roman society, he would have been well 
 received, as a member of a great Scotch family and 
 not very far removed from the head of his house. 
 No one of his relatives had ever known the truth 
 about his wife except his father, who had died 
 with the secret, and it was not likely that any one 
 should ask questions. If any one did, he would 
 certainly not satisfy such curiosity. But he cared 
 little for society, and spent his time either alone 
 with books and wine, or in occasional excursions 
 -into the artist world, where his eccentricities ex 
 cited little remark, and where he met men who 
 secretly sympathized with the Italian revolutionary
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 249 
 
 movement, and dabbled in conspiracies which 
 rather amused than disquieted the papal govern 
 ment. 
 
 Though Gloria was at that time but little more 
 than sixteen years of age, her father took her with 
 him to little informal parties at the studios or even 
 at the houses of artists, where there was often 
 good music, and clever if not serious conversation. 
 The conventionalities of age were little regarded 
 in such circles. Gloria appeared, too, much older 
 than she really was, and her marvellous voice made 
 her a centre of attraction at an age when most 
 young girls are altogether in the background. Dal- 
 rymple never objected to her singing on such occa 
 sions, and he invariably listened with closed eyes 
 and folded hands, as though he were assisting at a 
 religious service. Her voice was like her mother's, 
 excepting that it was pitched higher, and had all 
 the compass and power necessary for a great 
 soprano. Dalrymple's almost devout attitude when 
 Gloria was singing was the only allusion, if one 
 may call it so, which he ever made to his dead 
 wife's existence, and no one who watched him 
 knew what it meant. But he was often more silent 
 than usual after she had sung, and he sometimes 
 went off by himself afterwards and sat for hours 
 in one of the old wine cellars near the Capitol, 
 drinking gloomily of the oldest and strongest he 
 could find. For he drank more or less perpetually
 
 250 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 in the evening, and wine made him melancholic 
 and morose, though it did not seem to affect him 
 otherwise. Little by little, however, it was dull 
 ing the early keenness of his intellect, though it 
 hardly touched his constitution at all. He was 
 lean and bony still, as in the old days, but paler 
 in the face, and he had allowed his red beard to 
 grow. It was streaked with grey, and there were 
 small, nervous lines about his eyes, as well as deep 
 furrows on his forehead and face. 
 
 Dalrymple had found in the artist world a man 
 who was something of a companion to him at 
 times, a very young man, whom he could not 
 understand, though his own dogmatic temper made 
 him as a rule believe that he understood most 
 things and most men. But this particular individ 
 ual alternately puzzled, delighted, and irritated 
 the nervous Scotchman. 
 
 They had made acquaintance at an artists' supper 
 in the previous year, had afterwards met acciden 
 tally at the bookseller's in the Piazza di Spagna, 
 where they both went from time to time to look 
 at the English newspapers, and little by little they 
 had fallen into the habit of meeting there of a 
 morning, and of strolling in the direction of Dal- 
 rymple's lodging afterwards. At last Dalrymple 
 had asked his companion to come in and look at a 
 book, and so the acquaintance had grown. Gloria 
 watched the young stranger, and at first she dis 
 liked him.
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 251 
 
 The aforesaid bookseller dealt, and deals still, 
 in photographs and prints, as well as in foreign 
 and Italian books. At the present time his estab 
 lishment is distinctively a Roman Catholic one. 
 In those days it was almost the only one of its 
 kind, and was patronized alike by Romans and 
 foreigners. Even Donna Francesca Campodonico 
 went there from time to time for a book on art or 
 an engraving which she and Keanda needed for 
 their work. They occasionally walked all the way 
 from the Palazzetto Borgia to the Piazza di Spagna 
 together in the morning. When they had found 
 what they wanted, Donna Francesca generally 
 drove home in a cab, and Reanda went to his mid 
 day meal before returning. For the line of his 
 intimacy with her was drawn at this point. He 
 had never sat down at the same table with her, and 
 he never expected to do so. As the two stood to 
 one another at present, though Francesca would 
 willingly have asked him to breakfast, she would 
 have hesitated to do so, merely because the first in 
 vitation would inevitably call attention to the fact 
 that the line had been drawn somewhere, whereas 
 both were willing to believe that it had never 
 existed at all. Under any pressure of necessity 
 she would have driven with him in a cab, but not 
 in her own carriage. They both knew it, and by 
 tacit consent never allowed such unknown possi 
 bilities to suggest themselves. But in the mornings,
 
 252 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 there was nothing to prevent their walking together 
 as far as the Piazza di Spagna, or anywhere else. 
 
 They went to the bookseller's one day soon after 
 the conversation which had led Francesca to men 
 tion the Dalrymples. As they walked along the 
 east side of the great square, they saw two men 
 before them. 
 
 "There goes the Gladiator," said Keanda to his 
 companion, suddenly. "There is no mistaking 
 his walk, even at this distance." 
 
 " What do you mean? " asked Francesca. " Un 
 less I am mistaken, the man who is a little the 
 taller, the one in the rough English clothes, is Mr. 
 Dalrymple. I spoke of him the other day, you 
 know." 
 
 "Oh! Is that he? The other has a still more 
 extraordinary name. He is Paul Griggs. He is 
 the son of an American consul who died in Civita 
 Vecchia twenty years ago, and left him a sort of 
 waif, for he had no money and apparently no rela 
 tives. Somehow he has grown up, Heaven knows 
 how, and gets a living by journalism. I believe 
 he was at sea for some years as a boy. He is 
 really as much Italian as American. I have met 
 him with artists and literary people." 
 
 "Why do you call him the Gladiator?" asked 
 Francesca, with some interest. 
 
 "It is a nickname he has got. Cotogni, the 
 sculptor, was in despair for a model last year.
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 253 
 
 Griggs and two or three other men were in the 
 studio, and somebody suggested that Griggs was 
 very near the standard of the ancients in his pro 
 portions. They persuaded him to let them meas 
 ure him. You know that in the 'Canons' of pro 
 portion, the Borghese Gladiator the one in the 
 Louvre is given as the best example of an 
 athlete. They measured Griggs then and there, 
 and found that he was at all points the exact living 
 image of the statue. The name has stuck to him. 
 You see what a fellow he is, and how he walks." 
 
 "Yes, he looks strong," said Francesca, watching 
 the man with natural curiosity. 
 
 The young American was a little shorter than 
 Dalrymple, but evidently better proportioned. No 
 one could fail to notice the vast breadth of shoul 
 der, the firm, columnar throat, and the small ath 
 lete's head with close-set ears. He moved without 
 any of that swinging motion of the upper part of 
 the body which is natural to many strong men and 
 was noticeable in Dalrymple, but there was some 
 thing peculiar in his walk, almost undefmable, but 
 conveying the idea of very great strength with 
 very great elasticity. 
 
 "But he is an ugly man," observed Keanda, 
 almost immediately. "Ugly, but not repulsive. 
 You will see, if he turns his head. His face is 
 like a mask. It is not the face you would expect 
 with such a body."
 
 254 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 " How curious ! " exclaimed Francesca, rather 
 idly, for her interest in Paul Griggs was almost 
 exhausted. 
 
 They went on along the crowded pavement. 
 When they reached the bookseller's and went in, 
 they saw that the two men were there before them, 
 looking over the foreign papers, which were neatly 
 arranged on a little table apart. Dalrymple looked 
 up and recognized Francesca, to whom he had been 
 introduced at a small concert given for a charity 
 in a private house, on which occasion Gloria had 
 sung. He lifted his hat from his head and laid it 
 down upon the newspapers, when Francesca rather 
 unexpectedly held out her hand to him in English 
 fashion. He had left a card at her house on the 
 day after their meeting, but as she was alone in the 
 world, she had no means of returning the civility. 
 
 " It would give me great pleasure if you would 
 bring your daughter to see me," she said graciously. 
 
 " You are very kind, " answered Dalrymple, his 
 steely blue eyes scrutinizing her pure young fea 
 tures. 
 
 She only glanced at him, for she was suddenly 
 conscious that his companion was looking at her. 
 He, too, had laid down his hat, and she instantly 
 understood what Keanda had meant by comparing 
 his face to a mask. The features were certainly 
 very far from handsome. If they were redeemed at 
 all, it was by the very deep-set eyes, which gazed
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 255 
 
 into hers in a strangely steady way, as though 
 the lids never could droop from under the heavy 
 overhanging brow, and then, still unwinking, 
 turned in another direction. The man's complex 
 ion was of that perfectly even but almost sallow 
 colour which often belongs to very strong melan 
 cholic temperaments. His face was clean-shaven 
 and unnaturally square and expressionless, except 
 ing for such life as there was in the deep eyes. 
 Dark, straight, closely cut hair grew thick and 
 smooth as a priest's skull-cap, low on the forehead 
 and far forward at the temples. The level mouth, 
 firmly closed, divided the lower part of the face 
 like the scar of a straight sabre-cut. The nose 
 was very thick between the eyes, relatively long, 
 with unusually broad nostrils which ran upward 
 from the point to the lean cheeks. The man wore 
 very dark clothes of extreme simplicity, and at a 
 time when pins and chains were much in fashion, 
 he had not anything visible about him of gold or 
 silver. He wore his watch on a short, doubled 
 piece of black silk braid slipped through his 
 buttonhole. He dressed almost as though he 
 were in mourning. 
 
 Francesca unconsciously looked at him so in 
 tently for a moment that Dalrymple thought it 
 natural to introduce him, fancying that she might 
 have heard of him and might wish to know him 
 out of curiosity.
 
 256 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 "May I introduce Mr. Griggs?" he said, with 
 the stiff inclination which was a part of his man 
 ner. 
 
 Griggs bowed, and Donna Francesca bent her 
 head a little. Reanda came up and shook hands 
 with the American, and Francesca introduced the 
 artist to Dalrymple. 
 
 "I have long wished to have the pleasure of 
 knowing you, Signer Reanda," said the latter. 
 "We have many mutual acquaintances among the 
 artists here. I may say that I am a great admirer 
 of your work, and my daughter, too, for that 
 matter." 
 
 Reanda said something civil as his hand parted 
 from the Scotchman's. Francesca saw an oppor 
 tunity of bringing Reanda and Gloria together. 
 
 "As you like Signer Reanda's painting so much," 
 she said to Dalrymple, "will you not bring your 
 daughter this afternoon to see the frescoes he is 
 doing in my house? You know the Palazzetto? 
 Of course you left a card, but I had no one to 
 return it," she added rather sadly. "Will you 
 also come, Mr. Griggs?" she asked, turning to the 
 American. " It will give me much pleasure, and 
 I see you know Signor Reanda. This afternoon, 
 if you like, at any time after four o'clock." 
 
 Both Dalrymple and Griggs secretly wondered 
 a little at receiving such an invitation from a 
 Roman lady whom the one had met but once before,
 
 CASA BRACC1O. 257 
 
 and to whom the other had but just been intro 
 duced. But they bowed their thanks, and promised 
 to come. 
 
 After a few more words they separated, Francesca 
 and Reanda to pick out the engraving they wanted, 
 and the other two men to return to their news 
 papers. By and bye Francesca passed them again, 
 on her way out. 
 
 "I shall expect you after four o'clock," she said, 
 nodding graciously as she went by. 
 
 Dalrymple looked after her, till she had left the 
 shop. 
 
 "That woman is not like other women, I think," 
 he said thoughtfully, to his companion. 
 
 The mask-like face turned itself deliberately 
 towards him, with shadowy, unwinking eyes. 
 
 "No," answered Griggs, and he slowly took up 
 his paper again.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 DONNA FRANCESCA received her three guests in 
 the drawing-room, on the side of the house which 
 she inhabited. Reanda was at his work in the 
 great hall. 
 
 Gloria entered first, followed closely by her 
 father, and Francesca was dazzled by the young 
 girl's brilliancy of colour and expression, though 
 she had seen her once before. As she came in, the 
 afternoon sun streamed upon her face and turned 
 her auburn hair to red gold, and gleamed upon her 
 small white teeth as her strong lips parted to speak 
 the first words. She was tall and supple, graceful 
 as a panther, and her voice rang and whispered 
 and rang again in quick changes of tone, like a 
 waterfall in the woods in summer. With much of 
 her mother's beauty, she had inherited from her 
 father the violent vitality of his youth. Yet she 
 was not noisy, though her manners were not like 
 Francesca's. Her voice rippled and rang, but she 
 did not speak too loud. She moved swiftly and 
 surely, but not with rude haste. Nevertheless, it 
 seemed to Francesca that there must be some 
 exaggeration somewhere. The elder woman at 
 258
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 259 
 
 first set it down as a remnant of schoolgirl shy 
 ness, and then at once felt that she was mistaken, 
 because there was not the smallest awkwardness 
 nor lack of self-possession about it. The contrast 
 between the young girl and Paul Griggs was so 
 striking as to be almost violent. He was cold and 
 funereal in his leonine strength, and his face was 
 more like a mask than ever as he bowed and sat 
 down in silence. When he did not remind her of 
 a gladiator, he made her think of a black lion with 
 a strange, human face, and eyes that were not 
 exactly human, though they did not remind her 
 of any animal's eyes which she had ever seen. 
 
 As for Dalrymple, she thought that he was 
 singularly haggard and worn for a man apparently 
 only in middle age. There was a certain impos 
 ing air about him, which she liked. Besides, she 
 rarely met foreigners, and they interested her. 
 She noticed that both men wore black coats and 
 carried their tall hats in their hands. They were 
 therefore not artists, nor to be classed with artists. 
 She was still young enough to judge them to some 
 extent by details, to which people attached a good 
 deal more importance at that time than at present. 
 She made up her mind in the course of the next 
 few minutes that both Dalrymple and Griggs be 
 longed to her own class, though she did not ask 
 herself where the young American had got his man 
 ners. But somehow, though Gloria fascinated
 
 260 CASA BRACC10. 
 
 her eyes and her ears, she set down the girl as 
 being inferior to her father. She wondered 
 whether Gloria's mother had not been an actress; 
 which was a curious reflexion, considering that the 
 dead woman had been of her own house and name. 
 
 After exchanging a few words with her guests, 
 Francesca suggested that they should cross to the 
 other side and see the frescoes, adding that Reanda 
 was probably still at work. 
 
 "You know him, Mr. Griggs?" she said, as they 
 all rose to leave the room. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "as one man knows an 
 other." 
 
 "What does that mean? " asked Francesca, mov 
 ing towards the door to lead the way. 
 
 " It does not mean much," replied the young man, 
 with curious ambiguity. 
 
 He was very gentle in his manner, and spoke in 
 a low voice and rather diffidently. She looked at 
 him as though mentally determining to renew the 
 question at some other time. Her first impression 
 was that of a sort of duality about the man, as she 
 found the possibility of a double meaning in his 
 answer. His magnificent frame seemed to belong 
 to one person, his voice and manner to another. 
 Both might be good in their way, but her curiosity 
 was excited by the side which was the less apparent. 
 
 They all went through the house till they came 
 to a door which divided the inhabited part from the
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 261 
 
 hall in which Reanda was working. She knocked 
 gently upon it with her knuckles, and then smiled 
 as she saw Gloria looking at her. 
 
 "We keep it locked," she said. "The masons 
 come in the morning to lay on the stucco. One 
 never trusts those people. Signor Eeanda keeps 
 the key of this door." 
 
 The artist opened from within, and stood aside 
 to let the party pass. He started perceptibly 
 when he first saw Gloria. As a boy he had seen 
 Maria Braccio more than once before she had 
 entered the convent, and he was struck by the 
 girl's strong resemblance to her. Francesca, fol 
 lowing Gloria, saw his movement of surprise, and 
 attributed it merely to admiration or astonishment 
 such as she had felt herself a quarter of an hour 
 earlier. She smiled a little as she went by, and 
 Reanda knew that the smile was for him because 
 he had shown surprise. He understood the misin 
 terpretation, and resented it a little. 
 
 But she knew Reanda well, and before ten min 
 utes had passed she had convinced herself that he 
 was repelled rather than attracted by the young 
 girl, in spite of the latter's undisguised admira 
 tion of his work. It was not mere unintelligent 
 enthusiasm, either, and he might well have been 
 pleased and flattered by her unaffected praise. 
 
 She was interested, too, in the technical mechan 
 ics of fresco-painting, which she had never before
 
 262 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 been able to see at close quarters. Everything 
 interested Gloria, and especially everything con 
 nected with art. As soon as they had all spoken 
 their first words of compliment and appreciation, 
 she entered into conversation with the painter, 
 asking him all sorts of questions, and listening 
 earnestly to what he said, until he realized that 
 she was certainly not assuming an appearance of 
 admiration for the sake of flattering him. 
 
 Meanwhile Francesca talked with Griggs, and 
 Dalrymple, having gone slowly round the hall 
 alone after all the others, came and stood be 
 side the two and watched Francesca, occasionally 
 offering a rather dry remark in a somewhat 
 absent-minded way. It was all rather common 
 place and decidedly quiet, and he was not much 
 amused, though from time to time he seemed to 
 become absorbed in studying Francesca's face, as 
 though he saw something there which was past his 
 comprehension. She noticed that he watched her, 
 and felt a little uncomfortable under his steely 
 blue eyes, so that she turned her head and talked 
 more with Griggs than with him. Kemembering 
 what Eeanda had told her of the young man's 
 origin, she did not like to ask him the common 
 questions about residence in Rome and his liking 
 for Italy. She was self-possessed and ready enough 
 at conversation, and she chose to talk of general 
 subjects. They talked in Italian, of course. Dal-
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 263 
 
 rymple, as of old, spoke fluently, but with a strange 
 accent. Any one would have taken Paul Griggs 
 for a Roman. At last, almost in spite of herself, 
 she made a remark about his speech. 
 
 "I was born here," answered Griggs. "It is 
 much more remarkable that Miss Dalrymple should 
 speak Italian as she does, having been born in 
 Scotland." 
 
 "Are you talking about me?" asked the young 
 girl, turning her head quickly, though she was 
 standing with Eeanda at some distance from the 
 others. 
 
 " I was speaking of your accent in Italian, " said 
 Griggs. 
 
 "Is there anything wrong about it?" asked 
 Gloria, with an anxiety that seemed exaggerated. 
 
 "On the contrary," answered Donna Francesca, 
 "Mr. Griggs was telling me how perfectly you 
 speak. But I had noticed it." 
 
 "Oh! I thought Mr. Griggs was finding fault," 
 answered Gloria, turning to Reanda again. 
 
 Dalrymple looked at his daughter as though he 
 were annoyed. The eyes of Francesca and Griggs 
 met for a moment. All three were aware that they 
 resented the young girl's quick question as one 
 which they themselves would not have asked in 
 her place, had they accidentally heard their names 
 mentioned in a distant conversation. But Fran 
 cesca instantly went on with the subject.
 
 264 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 "To us Italians," she said, "it seems incredible 
 that any one should speak our language and English 
 equally well. It is as though you were two per 
 sons, Mr. Griggs," she added, smiling at the cov 
 ered expression of her thought about him. 
 
 " I sometimes think so myself," answered Griggs, 
 with one of his steady looks. " In a way, every 
 one must have a sort of duality a good and evil 
 principle." 
 
 "God and the devil," suggested Francesca, 
 simply. 
 
 " Body and soul would do, I STippose. The one 
 is always in slavery to the other. The result is 
 a sinner or a saint, as the case may be. One never 
 can tell," he added more carelessly. "I am not 
 sure that it matters. But one can see it. The 
 battle is fought in the face." 
 
 " I do not understand. What battle? " 
 
 " The battle between body and soul. The face 
 tells which way the fight is going." 
 
 She looked at his own, and she felt that she could 
 not tell. But to a certain extent she understood 
 him. 
 
 " Griggs is full of theories," observed Dalrymple. 
 "Gloria, come down!" he cried in English, sud 
 denly. 
 
 Gloria, intent upon understanding how fresco- 
 painting was done, was boldly mounting the steps 
 of the ladder towards the top of the little scaffold-
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 265 
 
 ing, which might have been fourteen feet high. 
 For the vault had long been finished, and Keanda 
 was painting the walls. 
 
 "Nonsense, papa!" answered the young girl, 
 also in English. "There's no danger at all." 
 
 "Well don't break your neck," said Dal- 
 rymple. "I wish you would come down, though." 
 
 Francesca was surprised at his indifference, and 
 at his daughter's calm disregard of his authority. 
 Timid, too, as most Italian women of higher rank, 
 she watched the girl nervously. Griggs raised his 
 eyes without lifting his head. 
 
 "Gloria is rather wild," said Dalrymple, in a 
 sort of apology. " I hope you will forgive her 
 she is so much interested." 
 
 " Oh if she wishes to see, let her go, of 
 course," answered Francesca, concealing a little 
 nervous irritation she felt. 
 
 A moment later Gloria and Keanda were on the 
 small platform, on one side of which only there was 
 a hand rail. It had been made for him, and his 
 head was steady even at a much greater elevation. 
 He was pointing out to her the way in which the 
 colours slowly changed as the stucco dried from 
 day to day, and explaining how it was impossible 
 to see the effect of what was done until all was 
 completely dry. The others continued to talk 
 below, but Griggs glanced up from time to time, 
 and Francesca's eyes followed his. Dalrymple
 
 266 CAS A BE AC CIO. 
 
 had become indifferent, allowing his daughter to 
 do what she pleased, as usual. 
 
 When Gloria had seen all she wished to see, she 
 turned with a quick movement to come down again, 
 and on turning, she found herself much nearer to 
 the edge than she had expected. She was bending 
 forwards a little, and G-riggs saw at once that she 
 must lose her balance, unless Keanda caught her 
 from behind. But she made no sound, and turned 
 very white as she swayed a little, trying to throw 
 herself back. 
 
 With a swift movement that was gentle but irre 
 sistible, Griggs pushed Francesca back, keeping 
 his eyes on the girl above. It all happened in an 
 instant. 
 
 " Jump ! " he cried, in a voice of command. 
 
 She had felt that she must spring or fall, and 
 her body was already overbalanced as she threw 
 herself off, instinctively gathering her skirt with 
 her hands. Dalrymple turned as pale as she. If 
 she struck the bare brick floor, she could scarcely 
 escape serious injury. But she did not reach it, 
 for Paul Griggs caught her in his arms, swayed 
 with her weight, then stood as steady as a rock, 
 and set her gently upon her feet, beside her father. 
 
 " Maria Santissima ! " cried Francesca, terrified, 
 though instantly relieved, and dimly understand 
 ing the stupendous feat of bodily strength which 
 had just been done before her eyes.
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 267 
 
 Above, Keanda leaned upon the single rail of 
 the scaffolding with wide-staring eyes. Gloria was 
 faint with the shock of fear, and grasped her 
 father's arm. 
 
 " You ought to be ashamed of yourself ! " he said 
 roughly, in English, but in a low voice. "You 
 probably owe your life to Mr. Griggs," he added, 
 immediately regaining his self-possession. 
 
 Griggs alone seemed wholly unmoved by what 
 had happened. Gloria had held one of her gloves 
 loosely in her hand, and it had fallen to the ground 
 as she sprang. He picked it up and handed it to 
 her with a curious gentleness. 
 
 "It must be yours, Miss Dalrymple," he said.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IT was late before Eeanda and Donna Fran- 
 eesca were alone together on that afternoon. 
 When the first surprise and shock of Gloria's 
 accident had passed, Francesca would not allow 
 Dalryrnple to take her away at once, as he seemed 
 anxious to do. The girl was not in the least hurt, 
 but she was still dazed and frightened. Francesca 
 took them all back to the drawing-room and insisted 
 upon giving them tea, because they were foreigners, 
 and Gloria, she said, must naturally need some 
 thing to restore her nerves. Eoman tea, thirty 
 years ago, was a strange and uncertain beverage, 
 as both Gloria and her father knew, but they 
 drank what Francesca gave them, and at last 
 went away with many apologies for the disturb 
 ance they had made. To tell the truth, Francesca 
 was glad when they were gone and she was at 
 liberty to return to the hall where Eeanda was 
 still at work. She found him nervous and irri 
 tated. He came down from the scaffolding as 
 soon as he heard her open the door. Neither spoke 
 until she had seated herself in her accustomed 
 chair, with a very frank sigh of relief. 
 2G8
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 269 
 
 " I am very grateful to you, Donna Francesca," 
 said Keanda, twisting his beard round bis long, 
 thin fingers, as he glanced at her and then sur 
 veyed his work. 
 
 " It was your fault," she answered, tapping the 
 worm-eaten arms of the old chair with both her 
 white hands, for she herself was still annoyed and 
 irritated. "Do not make me responsible for the 
 girl's folly." 
 
 " Eesponsibility ! May that never be ! " ex 
 claimed the artist, in the common Italian phrase, 
 but with a little irony. "But as for the respon 
 sibility, I do not know whose it was. It was cer 
 tainly not I who invited the young lady to go up 
 the ladder." 
 
 "Well, it was her fault. Besides, the absent 
 are always wrong. But she is handsome, is she 
 not ? " 
 
 Reanda shrugged his thin shoulders, and looked 
 critically at his hands, which were smeared with 
 paint. 
 
 "Very handsome," he said indifferently. "But 
 it is a beauty that says nothing to me. One must 
 be young to like that kind of beauty. She is a 
 beautiful storm, that young lady. For one who 
 seeks peace " He shrugged his shoulders again. 
 "And then, her manners! I do not understand 
 English, but I knoAV that her father was telling 
 her to come down, and yet she went up. I do not
 
 270 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 know what education these foreigners have. In 
 struction, yes, as much as you please ; but educa 
 tion, no. They have no more than barbarians. 
 The father says, ' You must not do that.' And 
 the daughter does it. What education is that? 
 Of course, if they were friends of yours, I should 
 not say it." 
 
 "Nevertheless that girl is very handsome," in 
 sisted Francesca. "She has the Venetian colour 
 ing. Titian would have painted her just as she is, 
 without changing anything." 
 
 " Beauty, beauty ! " exclaimed Reanda, impa 
 tiently. " Of course, it is beauty ! Food for the 
 brush, that says nothing to the heart. The devil 
 can also take the shape of a beautiful woman. 
 That is it. There is something in that young 
 lady's face how shall I say? It pleases me 
 little ! You must forgive me, princess. My 
 nerves are shaken. Divine goodness ! To see a 
 young girl flying through the air like Simon 
 Magus ! It was enough ! " 
 
 Francesca laughed gently. Keanda shook his 
 head with slow disapprobation, and frowned. 
 
 "I say the truth," he said. "There is some 
 thing I cannot explain. But I can show you," 
 he added quickly. 
 
 He took up his palette and brushes from the 
 chair on which they lay, and reached the white 
 plastered wall in two steps.
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 271 
 
 "Paint her," said Francesca, to encourage him. 
 
 " Yes, I will show her to you as I think she 
 is," he answered. 
 
 He closed his eyes for a moment, calling up the 
 image before him, then went back to the chair and 
 took a quantity of colour from a tube which lay, 
 with half-a-dozen others, in the hollow of the rush 
 seat. They were not the colours he used for fresco- 
 painting, but had been left there when he had 
 made a sketch of a head two or three days pre 
 viously. In a moment he was before the wall 
 again. It was roughly plastered from the floor to 
 the lower line of the frescoes. With a long, coarse 
 brush he began to sketch a gigantic head of a 
 woman. The oil paint lay well on the rough, dry 
 surface. He worked in great strokes at the full 
 length of his arm. 
 
 " Make her beautiful, at least," said Francesca, 
 watching him. 
 
 " Oh, yes very beautiful," he answered. 
 
 He worked rapidly for a few minutes, smiling, 
 as his hand moved, but not pleasantly. Francesca 
 thought there was an evil look in his face which 
 she had never seen there before, and that his smile 
 was wicked and spiteful. 
 
 " But you are painting a sunset ! " she cried 
 suddenly. 
 
 " A sunset ? That is her hair. It is red, and 
 she has much of it. Wait a little."
 
 272 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 And he went on. It was certainly something 
 like a sunset, the bright, waving streamers of the 
 clouds flying far to right and left, and blending 
 away to the neutral tint of the dry plaster as 
 though to a grey sky. 
 
 "Yes, but it is still a sunset," said Francesca. 
 " I have seen it like that from the Campagna in 
 winter." 
 
 "She is not 'Gloria' for nothing," answered 
 Reanda. "I am making her glorious^ You shall 
 see." 
 
 Suddenly, with another tone, he brought out the 
 main features of the striking face, by throwing in 
 strong shadows from the flaming hair. Francesca 
 became more interested. The head was colossal, 
 extraordinary, almost unearthly; the expression 
 was strange. 
 
 " What a monster ! " exclaimed Francesca at last, 
 as he stood aside, still touching the enormous 
 sketch here and there with his long brush, at 
 arm's length. "It is terrible," she added, in a 
 lower tone. 
 
 "Truth is always terrible," answered Eeanda. 
 " But you cannot say that it is not like her." 
 
 " Horribly like. It is diabolical ! " 
 
 " And yet it is a beautiful head," said the artist. 
 "Perhaps you are too near." He himself crossed 
 the hall, and then turned round to look at his 
 work. "It is better from here," he said. "Will 
 you come ? "
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 273 
 
 She went to his side. The huge face and wildly 
 streaming hair stood out as though in three dimen 
 sions from the wall. The great, strong mouth 
 smiled at her with a smile that was at once evil 
 and sad and fatal. The strange eyes looked her 
 through and through from beneath the vast brow. 
 
 " It is diabolical, satanical ! " she responded, 
 under her breath. 
 
 Eeanda still smiled wickedly and watched her. 
 The face seemed to grow and grow till it filled the 
 whole range of vision. The dark eyes flashed; 
 the lips trembled; the flaming hair quivered and 
 waved and curled up like snakes that darted 
 hither and thither. Yet it was horribly like 
 Gloria, and the fresh, rich oil colours gave it her 
 startling and vivid brilliancy. 
 . It was the sudden and enormous expression of a 
 man of genius, strung and stung, till irritation had 
 to find its explosion through the one art of which 
 he was absolute master in a fearful caricature 
 exaggerating beauty itself to the bounds of the 
 devilish. 
 
 " I cannot bear it ! " cried Francesca. 
 
 She snatched the big brush from his hand, and, 
 running lightly across the room, dashed the colour 
 left in it across the face in all directions, over the 
 eyes and the mouth, and through the long red 
 hair. In ten seconds nothing remained but con 
 fused daubs and splashes of brilliant paint. 
 
 TOL. I. T
 
 274 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 " There ! " cried Francesca. " And I wish I had 
 never seen it ! " 
 
 Still holding the brush in her hand, she turned 
 her back to the obliterated sketch and faced Reanda, 
 with a look of girlish defiance and satisfaction. His 
 face was grave now, but he seemed pleased with 
 what he had done. 
 
 " It makes no difference," he said. " You will 
 never forget it." 
 
 He felt that he was revenged for the smile she 
 had bestowed upon his apparent surprise at Gloria's 
 beauty, when she had followed the girl into the 
 hall, and had seen him start. He could not con 
 ceal his triumph. 
 
 "That is the young lady whom you thought I 
 might wish to marry," he said. ''You know me 
 little after so many years, Donna Francesca. You 
 have bestowed much kindness upon a man whom 
 you do not know." 
 
 "My dear Reanda, who can understand you? 
 But as for kindness, do not let me hear the word 
 between you and me. It has no meaning. We are 
 always good friends, as we were when I was a little 
 girl and used to play with your paints. You have 
 given me far more than I can ever repay you for, 
 in your works. I do not flatter you, my friend. 
 Cupid and Psyche, there in your frescoes, will out 
 live me and be famous when I am forgotten yet 
 they are mine, are they not ? And you gave them 
 to me."
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 275 
 
 The sweet young face turned to him with an un 
 affected, grateful smile. His sad features softened 
 all at once. 
 
 "Ah, Donna Francesca," he said gently, "you 
 have given me something better than Cupid and 
 Psyche, for your gift will live forever in heaven." 
 
 She looked thoughtfully into his eyes, but with 
 a sort of question in her own. 
 
 "Your dear friendship," he added, bending his 
 head a little. Then he laughed suddenly. "Do 
 not give me a wife," he concluded. 
 
 "And you, Eeanda do not make wicked cari 
 catures of women you have only seen once ! Be 
 sides, I go back to it again. I saw you start when 
 she passed you at the door. You were surprised 
 at her beauty. You must admit that. And then, 
 because you are irritated with her, you take a 
 brush and daub that monstrous thing upon the 
 wall ! It is a shame ! " 
 
 " I started, yes. It was not because she struck 
 me as beautiful. It was something much more 
 strange. Do you know ? She is the very portrait 
 of Donna Maria, who was in the Carmelite convent 
 at Subiaco, and who was burned to death. I have 
 often told you that I remembered having seen her 
 when I was a boy, both at Gerano and at the 
 Palazzo Braccio, before she took the veil. There is a 
 little difference in the colouring, I think, and much 
 in the expression. But the rest it is the image!"
 
 276 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated 
 kinswoman, was not much impressed by Reanda's 
 statement. 
 
 "It makes your caricature all the worse," she 
 answered, "since it was also a caricature of that 
 holy woman. As for the resemblance, after all 
 these years, it is a mere impression. Who knows ? 
 It may be. There is no portrait of Sister Maria 
 Addolorata." 
 
 " Oh, but I remember well ! " insisted Eeanda. 
 
 " Well, it concludes nothing, after all," returned 
 Francesca, with much logic. " It does not make a 
 fiend of the poor nun, who is an angel by this time, 
 and it does not make Miss Dalrymple less beau 
 tiful. And now, Signor Painter," she added, with 
 another girlish laugh, "if we have quarrelled enough 
 to restore your nerves, I am going out. It is almost 
 dark, and I have to go to the Austrian Embassy 
 before dinner, and the carriage has been waiting 
 for an hour." 
 
 "You, princess ! " exclaimed Eeanda, in surprise ; 
 for she had not begun to go into the world yet since 
 her husband's death. 
 
 "It is not a reception. We are to meet there 
 about arranging another of those charity concerts 
 for the deaf and dumb." 
 
 "I might have known," answered the painter. 
 "As for me, I shall go to the theatre to-night. 
 There is the Trovatore."
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 277 
 
 "That is a new thing for you, too. But I am 
 glad. Amuse yourself, and tell me about the sing 
 ing to-morrow. Remember to lock the door and 
 take the key. I do not trust the masons in the 
 morning." 
 
 " Do I ever forget ? " asked Reanda. " But I 
 will lock it now, as you go out ; for it is late, and 
 I shall go upstairs." 
 
 "Good night," said Francesca, as she turned to 
 leave the room. 
 
 " And you forgive the caricature ? " asked Re 
 anda, holding the door open for her to pass. 
 
 "I would forgive you many things," she an 
 swered, smiling as she went by.
 
 CHAPTEK XXI. 
 
 IN~ those days the Trovatore was not an old- 
 fashioned opera. It was not ' threshed-out,' to 
 borrow the vigorous German phrase. Wagner 
 had not eclipsed melody with 'tone-poetry/ nor 
 made men feel more than they could hear. Many 
 of the great things of this century -ending had not 
 been done then, nor even dreamed of, and even 
 musicians listened to the Trovatore with pleasure, 
 not dreaming of the untried strength that lay wait 
 ing in Verdi's vast reserve. It was then the 
 music of youth. To us it seems but the music of 
 childhood. Many of us cannot listen to Manrico's 
 death-song from the tower without hearing the 
 grind-organ upon which its passion has grown so 
 pathetically poor. But one could understand that 
 music. The mere statement that it was compre^ 
 hensible raises a smile to-day. It appealed to sim 
 ple feelings. We are no longer satisfied with such 
 simplicity, and even long for powers that do not 
 appeal, but twist us with something stronger than 
 our hardened selves, until we ourselves appeal to 
 the unknown, in a sort of despairing ecstasy of 
 unsatisfied delight, asking of possibility to stretch 
 itself out to the impossible. We are in a strange 
 278
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 279 
 
 phase of development. We see the elaborately 
 artificial world-scape painted by Science on the 
 curtain close before our eyes, but our restless 
 hands are thrust through it and beyond, opening 
 eagerly and shutting on nothing, though we know 
 that something is there. 
 
 Angelo Reanda was passionately fond of what 
 was called music in Italy more than thirty years 
 ago. He had the true ear and the facile memory 
 for melody common to Italians, who are a singing 
 people, if not a musical race, and which constituted 
 a talent for music when music was considered to 
 be a succession of sounds rather than a series of 
 sensuous impressions. He could listen to an opera, 
 understand it without thought, enjoy it simply, and 
 remember' it without difficulty, like thousands of 
 other Romans. Most of us would willingly go back 
 to such childlike amusements if we could. A few 
 possess the power even now, and are looked upon 
 with friendly contempt by their more cultured, and 
 therefore more tortured, musical acquaintances, 
 whose dream it is to be torn to very rags in the 
 delirium of orchestral passion. 
 
 Reanda went to the Apollo Theatre in search of 
 merely pleasurable sensations, and he got exactly 
 what he wanted. The old house was brilliant even 
 in those days, less with light than with jewels, it 
 is true, but perhaps that illumination was as good 
 as any other. The Roman ladies and the ladies
 
 280 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 of the great embassies used then to sit through 
 the whole evening in their boxes, and it was the 
 privilege, as it is still in Home, of the men in 
 the stalls and pit to stand up between the acts 
 and admire them and their diamonds as much as 
 they pleased. The light was dim enough, com 
 pared with what we have nowadays ; for gas was 
 but just introduced in a few of the principal streets, 
 and the lamps in the huge chandelier at the Apollo, 
 and in the brackets around the house, were filled 
 with the olive oil which to-day dresses the world's 
 salad. But it was a soft warm light, with rich 
 yellow in it, which penetrated the shadows and 
 beautified all it touched. 
 
 Reanda, like the others, stood up and looked 
 about him after the first act. His eyes* were in 
 stantly arrested by Gloria's splendid hair, which 
 caught the light from above. She was seated in 
 the front of a box on the third tier, the second row 
 of boxes being almost exclusively reserved in those 
 days. Dalrymple was beside his daughter, and 
 the dark, still face of Paul Griggs was just visible 
 in the shadow. 
 
 Gloria saw the artist almost immediately, for he 
 could not help looking at her curiously, comparing 
 her face with the mad sketch he had made on the 
 wall. She nodded to him, and then spoke to her 
 father, evidently calling his attention to Reanda, 
 for Dalrymple looked down at once, and also
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 281 
 
 nodded, while Griggs leaned forward a little and 
 stared vacantly into the pit. 
 
 " It is an obsession to-day," said Reanda to him 
 self, reflecting that though the girl lived in Rome 
 he had never noticed her before, and had now seen 
 her twice on the same day. 
 
 He mentally added the reflexion that she must 
 have good nerves, and that most young girls would 
 be at home with a headache after such a narrow 
 escape as hers. She was quite as handsome as he 
 had thought, however, and even more so, now that 
 he saw her in her girlish evening gown, which was 
 just a little open at the throat, and without even 
 the simplest of ornaments. The white material 
 and the shadow around and behind her threw her 
 head into strong relief. 
 
 The curtain went up again, and Reanda sat down 
 and watched the performance and listened to the 
 simple, stirring melodies. But he was uncomfort 
 ably conscious that Gloria was looking at the back 
 of his head from her box. Nervous people know 
 the unpleasant sensation which such a delusion can 
 produce. Reanda moved uneasily in his seat, and 
 looked round more than once, just far enough to 
 catch sight of Gloria's hair without looking up into 
 her eyes. 
 
 His thoughts were disturbed, and he recalled 
 vividly the face of the dead nun, which he had 
 seen long ago. The resemblance was certainly
 
 282 CASA BEACC1O. 
 
 strong. Maria Addolorata had sometimes had a 
 strange expression which was quite her own, and 
 which he had not yet seen in Gloria. But he felt 
 that he should see it some day. He was sure of it, 
 so sure that he had thrown its full force into the 
 sketch on the wall, knowing that it would startle 
 Donna Francesca. It was not possible that two 
 women should be so much alike and yet that one 
 of them should never have that look. Perhaps 
 Gloria had it now and was staring at the back of 
 his head. 
 
 An unaccountable nervousness took possession 
 of the sensitive man, and he suffered as he sat 
 there. After the curtain dropped he rose and 
 left the theatre without looking up, and crossed 
 the narrow street to a little coffee shop familiar 
 to him for many years. He drank a cup of 
 coffee, broke off the end of a thin black Roman 
 cigar, and smoked for a few minutes before he 
 returned. 
 
 Gloria had not moved, but Griggs was either 
 gone or had retired further back into the shadow. 
 Dalrymple was leaning back in his chair, bony and 
 haggard, one of his great hands hanging listlessly 
 over the front of the box. Reanda sat down again, 
 and determined that he would not turn round be 
 fore the end of the act. But it was of no use. He 
 irritated his neighbours on each side by his rest 
 lessness, and his forehead was moist as though he
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 283 
 
 were suffering great pain. Again he faced about 
 and stared upwards at the box. Gloria, to his sur 
 prise, was not looking at him, but in the shadow 
 he met the inscrutable eyes of Paul Griggs, fixed 
 upon him as though they would never look away. 
 But he cared very little -whether Griggs looked at 
 him or not. He faced the stage again and was 
 more quiet. 
 
 It was a good performance, and he began to be 
 glad that he had come. The singers were young, 
 the audience was inclined to applaud, and every 
 thing went smoothly. Eeanda thought the soprano 
 rather weak in the great tower scene. 
 
 " Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator ! " 
 
 she sang in great ascending intervals. 
 
 Eeanda sighed, for she made no impression on 
 him, and he remembered that he had been deeply 
 impressed, even thrilled, when he had first heard 
 the phrase. He had realized the situation then 
 and had felt with Leonora. Perhaps he had grown 
 too old to feel that sort of young emotion any 
 more. He sighed regretfully as he rose from his 
 seat. Looking up once more, he saw that Gloria 
 was putting on her cloak, her back turned to the 
 theatre. He waited a moment and then moved on 
 with the crowd, to get his coat from the cloak 
 room. 
 
 He went out and walked slowly up the Via di
 
 284 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 Tordinona. It was a dark and narrow street in 
 those days. The great old-fashioned lanterns were 
 swung up with their oil lamps in them, by long 
 levers held in place by chains locked to the wall. 
 Here and there over a low door a red light showed 
 that wine was sold in a basement which was almost 
 a cellar. The crowd from the theatre hurried along 
 close by the walls, in constant danger from the big 
 coaches that dashed past, bringing the Roman 
 ladies home, for all had to pass through that 
 narrow street. Landaus were not yet invented, 
 and the heavy carriages rumbled loudly through 
 the darkness, over the small paving-stones. But 
 the people on foot were used to them, and stood 
 pressed against the walls as they went by, or 
 grouped for a moment on the low doorsteps of the 
 dark houses. 
 
 Reanda went with the rest. He might have 
 gone the other way, by the Banchi Vecchi, from 
 the bridge of Sant' Angelo, and it would have been 
 nearer, but he had a curious fancy that the Dal- 
 rymples might walk home, and that he might see 
 Gloria again. Though it was not yet winter, the 
 night was bright and cold, and it was pleasant to 
 walk. The regular season at the Apollo Theatre 
 did not begin until Christmas, but there were often 
 good companies there at other times of the year. 
 
 The artist walked on, glancing at the groups he 
 passed in the dim street, but neither pausing nor
 
 CASA BEACCIO. 285 
 
 hurrying. He meant to let fate have her own way 
 with him that night. 
 
 Fate was not far off. He had gone on some dis 
 tance, and the crowd had dispersed in various 
 directions, till he was almost alone as he emerged 
 into the open space where the Via del Clementino 
 intersects the Blpetta. At that moment he heard 
 a wild and thrilling burst of song. 
 
 " Calpesta il mio cadavere, ma salva il Trovator ! " 
 
 The great soprano rang out upon the midnight 
 silence, like the voice of a despairing archangel, 
 and there was nothing more. 
 
 " Hush ! " exclaimed a man's voice energetically. 
 
 Two or three windows were opened high up, for 
 no one had ever heard such a woman's voice in the 
 streets before. Reanda peered before him through 
 the gloom, saw three people standing at the next 
 corner, and hastened his long steps. An instinct 
 he could not explain told him that Gloria had sung 
 the short strain, which had left him cold and indif 
 ferent when he had heard it in the theatre. He 
 was neither now, and he was possessed by the 
 desire to be sure that it had been she. 
 
 He was -not mistaken. G-riggs had recognized 
 him first, and they had waited for him at the 
 corner. 
 
 " It is an unexpected pleasure to meet twice in 
 the same day," said Eeanda.
 
 286 CASA BKACCIO. 
 
 " The pleasure is ours," answered Dalrymple, in 
 the correct phrase, but with his peculiar accent. 
 "I suppose you heard my daughter's screams," he 
 added drily. " She was explaining to us how a 
 particular phrase should be sung." 
 
 " Was I not right ? " asked Gloria, quickly ap 
 pealing to Keanda with the certainty of support. 
 
 " A thousand times right," he answered. " How 
 could one be wrong with such a voice ? " 
 
 Gloria was pleased, and they all walked on to 
 gether till they reached the door of Dalrymple's 
 lodging. 
 
 " Come in and have supper with us," said the 
 Scotchman, who seemed to be less gloomy than 
 usual. " I suppose you live in our neighbourhood ? " 
 
 " No. In the Palazzetto Borgia, where I work." 
 
 " This is not exactly on your way home, then," 
 observed Gloria. " You may as well rest and 
 refresh yourself." 
 
 Reanda accepted the invitation, wondering in 
 wardly at the assurance of the foreign girl. With 
 her Italian speech she should have had Italian 
 manners, he thought. The three men all carried 
 tapers, as was then customary, and they all lit them 
 before they ascended the dark staircase. 
 
 " This is an illumination," said Dalrymple, look 
 ing back as he led the way. 
 
 Gloria stopped suddenly, and looked round. 
 She was following her father, and Reanda came 
 after her, Griggs being the last.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 287 
 
 " One, two, three," she counted, and her eyes 
 met Eeanda's. 
 
 Without the slightest hesitation, she blew out 
 the taper he held in his hand. But, for one instant, 
 he had seen in her face the expression of the dead 
 nun, distinct in the clear light, and close to his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Why did you do that ? " asked Dalrymple, who 
 had turned his head again, as the taper was 
 extinguished. 
 
 " Three lights mean death," said Gloria, prompt 
 ly ; and she laughed, as she went quickly up the 
 steps. 
 
 "It is true," answered Eeanda, in a low voice, 
 as he followed her ; and it occurred to him that in 
 a flash he had seen death written in the brilliant 
 young face. 
 
 Ten minutes later, they were seated around the 
 table in the Dalrymples' small dining-room. Re- 
 anda noticed that everything he saw there evi 
 dently belonged to the hired lodging, from the 
 old-fashioned Italian silver forks, battered and 
 crooked at the prongs, to the heavy cut-glass de 
 canters, stained with age and use, at the neck, 
 and between the diamond-shaped cuttings. There 
 was supper enough for half-a-dozen people, how 
 ever, and an extraordinary quantity of wine. 
 Dalrymple swallowed a big tumbler of it before 
 he ate anything. Paul Griggs filled his glass to
 
 288 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 the brim, and looked at it. He had hardly spoken 
 since Reanda had joined the party. 
 
 The artist made an effort to be agreeable, feeling 
 that the invitation had been a very friendly one, 
 considering the slight acquaintance he had with 
 the Dalrymples, an acquaintance not yet twenty- 
 four hours old. Presently he asked Gloria if she 
 had felt no ill effects from her extraordinary acci 
 dent in the afternoon. 
 
 "I had not thought about it again," she an 
 swered. " I have thought of nothing but your 
 painting all the evening, until that woman sang 
 that phrase as though she were asking the Conte di 
 Luna for more strawberries and cream." 
 
 She laughed, but her eyes were fixed on his face. 
 
 " ' Tin altro po' di fravole, e dammi crema ancor,' " 
 
 she sang softly, in the Roman dialect. 
 
 Then she laughed again, and Reanda smiled at 
 the absurd words "A few more strawberries, 
 and give me some more cream." But even the 
 few notes, a lazy parody of the prima donna's 
 singing of the phrase, charmed his simple love of 
 melody. 
 
 " Don't look so grim, papa," she said in English. 
 " Nobody can hear me here, you know." 
 
 "I should not think anybody would wish to," 
 answered the Scotchman ; but he spoke in Italian, 
 in consideration of his guest, who did not under 
 stand English.
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 289 
 
 " I do not know why you are always so angry 
 if I sing anything foolish," said the young girl, 
 going back to Italian. " One cannot be always 
 serious. But I was talking about your frescoes, 
 Signor Reanda. I have thought of nothing else." 
 
 Again her eyes met the artist's, but fell before 
 his. He was too great a painter not to know the 
 value of such flattering speeches in general, and 
 in a way he was inclined to resent the girl's bold 
 ness. But at the same time, it was hard to believe 
 that she was not really in earnest, for she had that 
 power of sudden gravity which lends great weight 
 to little speeches. In spite of himself, and per 
 haps rightly, he believed her. Paul Griggs did 
 not, and he watched her curiously. 
 
 " Why do you look at me like that ? " she asked, 
 turning upon him with a little show of temper. 
 
 " If your father will allow me to say so, you are 
 the object most worth looking at in the room," 
 answered the young man, calmly. 
 
 "You will make her vain with your pretty 
 speeches, Griggs," said Dalrymple. 
 
 " I doubt that," answered Griggs. 
 
 He relapsed into silence, and drained a big tum 
 bler of wine. Reanda suspected, with a shrewd 
 intuition, that the American admired Gloria, but 
 that she did not like him much. 
 
 "Miss Dalrymple is doing her best to make me 
 vain with her praise," said Reanda. 
 
 VOL. I. V
 
 290 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 "I never flattered any one in my life," answered 
 Gloria. "Signer Reanda is the greatest painter 
 in Italy. Everybody says so. It would be foolish 
 of me to even pretend that after seeing him at 
 work I had thought of anything else. We have 
 all said, this evening, that the frescoes were won 
 derful, and that no one, not even Eaphael, who 
 did the same thing, has ever had a more beautiful 
 idea of the history of Cupid and Psyche. Why 
 should we not tell the truth, just because he 
 happens to be here ? How illogical you are ! " 
 
 "I believe I excepted Eaphael," said Dalrymple, 
 with his national accuracy. " But Signer Reanda 
 will not quarrel with me on that account, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " But I did not except Raphael, nor any one," 
 persisted Gloria, before Reanda could speak. 
 
 "Really, Signorina, though I am mortal and 
 susceptible, you go a little too far. Flattery is 
 not appreciation, you know." 
 
 " It is not flattery," she answered, and the colour 
 rose in her face. " I am quite in earnest. Xobody 
 ever painted anything better than. your Cupid and 
 Psyche. Raphael's is dull and uninteresting com 
 pared with it." 
 
 " I blush, but I cannot accept so much," said the 
 Italian, smiling politely, but still trying to discover 
 whether she meant what she said or not. 
 
 In spite of himself, as before, he continued to
 
 CA8A BRACCIO. 291 
 
 believe her, though his judgment told him that 
 hers could not be worth much. But he was pleased 
 to have made such an impression, and by quick 
 degrees his prejudice against her began to disap 
 pear. What had seemed like boldness in her no 
 longer shocked him, and he described it to himself 
 as the innocent frankness of a foreign girl. It 
 was not possible that any one so like the dead 
 Maria Braccio could be vulgar or bold. From 
 that moment he began to rank Gloria as belonging 
 to the higher sphere from which his birth excluded 
 him. It was a curious and quick transition, and 
 he would not have admitted that it was due to 
 her exaggerated praise of his work. Strange as 
 it must seem to those not familiar with the almost 
 impassable barriers of old Italian society, Reanda 
 had that evening, for the first time in his life, the 
 sensation of being liked, admired, and talked with 
 by a woman of Francesca Campodonico's class; 
 stranger still, it was one of the most delicious 
 sensations he had ever experienced. Yet the 
 woman in question was but a girl not yet seven 
 teen years old. Before he rose to go home, he 
 unconsciously resented Griggs's silent admiration 
 for Gloria. To the average Italian, such silence 
 is a sign that a man is in love, and Reanda was 
 the more attracted to Gloria because she treated 
 Griggs with such perfect indifference. 
 It was nearly one o'clock when he lighted his
 
 292 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 taper to descend the stairs. Griggs was also ready 
 to go. It was a relief to know that he was not 
 going to stay behind and talk with Gloria. They 
 went down in silence. 
 
 "I wanted to ask you a question," said the 
 American, as they caine out upon the street, and 
 blew out their tapers. " We live' in opposite direc 
 tions, so I must ask it now. Should you mind, if 
 I wrote an article on your frescoes for a London 
 paper ? " 
 
 " Mind ! " exclaimed the artist, with a sudden 
 revulsion of feeling in favour of the journalist. 
 "I should be delighted flattered." 
 
 "No," said Griggs, coldly. "I shall not write 
 as Miss Dalrymple talks. But I shall try and do 
 you justice, and that is a good deal, when one is 
 a serious artist, as you are." 
 
 Reanda was struck by the cool moderation of 
 the words, which expressed his own modest judg 
 ment of himself almost too exactly to be agreeable 
 after Gloria's unlimited praise. He thanked Griggs 
 warmly, however, and they shook hands before 
 they parted.
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 THREE months passed, and Reanda was intimate 
 with the Dalrymples. It was natural enough, 
 considering the circumstances. They lived much 
 alone, and Reanda was like them in this respect, 
 for he rarely went where he was obliged to talk. 
 During the day he saw much of Donna Francesca, 
 but when it grew dark in the early afternoons of 
 midwinter, the artist was thrown upon his own 
 resources. In former years he had now and then 
 done as many of the other artists did, and had some 
 times for a month or two spent most of his evenings 
 at the eating-house where he dined, in company with 
 half-a-dozen others who frequented the same estab 
 lishment. Each dropped in, at any hour that 
 chanced to suit him, ate his supper, pushed back 
 his chair, and joined in the general conversation, 
 smoking, and drinking coffee or a little wine, 
 until it was time to go . home. There were grey 
 headed painters who had hardly been absent more 
 than a few days in five and twenty years from their 
 accustomed tables at such places as the Falcone, 
 the G-abbione, or the Genio. But Reanda had never 
 joined in any of these little circles for longer than 
 293
 
 294 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 a month or two, by which time he had exhausted 
 the stock of his companions' ideas, and returned 
 to solitude and his own thoughts. For he had 
 something which they had not, besides his greater 
 talent, his broader intelligence, and his deeper 
 artistic insight. Donna Francesca's refining influ 
 ence exerted itself continually upon him, and made 
 much of the common conversation tiresome or dis 
 agreeable to him. A man whose existence is pen 
 etrated by the presence of a rarely refined woman 
 seldom cares much for the daily society of men. 
 He prefers to be alone, when he cannot be with her. 
 
 Reanda believed that what he felt for Francesca 
 was a devoted and almost devout friendship. The 
 fact that before many weeks had passed after his 
 first meeting with Gloria he was perceptibly in 
 love with the girl, while he felt not the smallest 
 change in his relations with Donna Francesca, sat 
 isfactorily proved to him that he was right. It 
 would not have been like an Italian and a Latin to 
 compare his feelings for the two women by imagi 
 nary tests, as, for instance, by asking himself for 
 which of the two he would make the greater sacri 
 fice. He took it for granted that the one sentiment 
 was friendship and the other love, and he acted 
 accordingly. 
 
 He was distrustful, indeed, and very suspicious, 
 but not of himself. Gloria treated him too well. 
 Her eyes told him more than he felt able to be-
 
 CASA BRACC1O. 295 
 
 lieve. It was not natural that a girl so young and 
 fresh and beautiful, with the world before her, 
 should fall in love with a man of his age. That, 
 at least, was what he thought. But the fact that 
 it was unnatural did not prevent it from taking 
 place. 
 
 Reanda ignored certain points of great impor 
 tance. In the first place, Gloria had not really 
 the world before her. Her little sphere was closely 
 limited by her father's morose selfishness, which 
 led him to keep her in Rome because he liked the 
 place himself, and to keep away from his country 
 men, whom he detested as heartily as Britons living 
 abroad sometimes do. On the other hand, a vague 
 dread lest the story of his marriage might some 
 day come to the light kept him away from Roman 
 society. He had fallen back upon artistic Bohemia 
 for such company as he wanted, which was little 
 enough, and as his child grew up he had not under 
 stood that she was developing early and coming to 
 womanhood while she was still under the care of 
 the governess he had provided. He had not even 
 made any plans for her future, for he did not love 
 her, though he indulged her as a selfish and easy 
 means of fulfilling his paternal obligations. It 
 was to get rid of her importunity that he began 
 to take her to the houses of some of the married 
 artists when she was only sixteen years old, though 
 she looked at least two years older.
 
 296 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 But in such society as that, Eeanda was easily 
 first, apart from the talent which placed him at 
 the head of the whole artistic profession. He had 
 been brought up, taught, and educated among 
 gentlemen, sons of one of the oldest and most fas 
 tidious aristocracies in Europe, and he had their 
 manners, their speech, their quiet air of superior 
 ity, and especially that exterior gentleness and 
 modesty of demeanour which most touches some 
 women. In Gloria's opinion, he even had much 
 of their appearance, being tall, thin, and dark. 
 Accustomed as she was to living with her father, 
 who was gloomy and morose, and to seeing much 
 of Paul Griggs, whose powers of silence were phe 
 nomenal at that time, Reanda's easy grace of con 
 versation charmed and flattered her. He was, by 
 many degrees, the superior in talent, in charm, in 
 learning, to any one she had ever met, and it must 
 not be forgotten that although he was twenty years 
 older than she, he was not yet forty, and that, as 
 he had not a grey hai'r in his head, he could still 
 pass for a young man, though his grave disposition 
 made him feel older than he was. Of the three 
 melancholic men in whose society she chiefly lived, 
 her father was selfish and morose; Griggs was 
 gentle, but silent and incomprehensible, though he 
 exerted an undoubted influence over her; Eeanda 
 alone, though naturally melancholy, was at once 
 gentle, companionable, and talkative with her.
 
 CASA BSACCIO. 297 
 
 Dalrymple accepted the intimacy with indifference 
 and even with a certain satisfaction. In his reflex 
 ions, he characterized Reanda as a rare combina 
 tion of the great artist and the gentleman. Since 
 Gloria had known him she had grown more quiet. 
 She admired him and imitated his manner. It was 
 a good thing. He was glad, too, that Eeanda was 
 not married, for it would have been a nuisance, 
 thought Dalrymple, to have the man's wife always 
 about and expecting to be amused. 
 
 It began to occur to him that Keanda might be 
 falling in love with Gloria, and he did not resent 
 the idea. In fact, though at first sight it should 
 have seemed strange to an Englishman, he looked 
 upon the idea with favour. He wished to live out 
 his life in Italy, for he had got that fierce affection 
 for the country which has overcome and bound many 
 northern men, from Sir John Hawkwood to Landor 
 and Browning. Though he did not love Gloria, 
 he was attached to her in his own way, and did 
 not wish to lose sight of her altogether. But, 
 in consequence of his own irregular marriage, he 
 could not marry her to a man of his own rank in 
 Rome, who would not fail to make inquiries about 
 her mother. It was most natural that he should 
 look upon such a man as Reanda with favour. 
 Reanda had many good qualities. Dalrymple's 
 judgment was generally keen enough about people, 
 and he had understood that such a woman as Donna
 
 298 CASA BItACCIO. 
 
 Francesca Campodonico would certainly not make 
 a personal friend of a painter, and allow him to 
 occupy rooms in her palace, unless his character 
 were altogether above suspicion. 
 
 Gloria was, of course, too young to be married 
 yet, though she seemed to be so entirely grown up 
 and altogether a woman. In this respect Dalrym- 
 ple was not prejudiced. His own mother had been 
 married at the age of seventeen, and he had lived 
 long in Italy, where early marriages were common 
 enough. There could certainly be no serious objec 
 tion to the match on that score, when another year 
 should have passed. 
 
 Dalrymple's only anxiety about his daughter 
 concerned her strong inclination to be a public 
 singer. The prejudice was by no means extraordi 
 nary, and as a Scotchman, it had even more weight 
 with him than it could have had, for instance, with 
 an Italian. Reanda entirely agreed with him on 
 this point, and when Gloria spoke of it, he never 
 failed to draw a lively picture of the drawbacks 
 attending stage life. The artist spoke very strongly, 
 for one of Gloria's earliest and chiefest attractions 
 in his eyes had been the certainty he felt that she 
 belonged to Francesca's class. For that reason her 
 flattering admiration had brought with it a pecul 
 iar savour, especially delightful to the taste of a 
 man of humble origin. Dalrymple did not under 
 stand that, but he knew that if Gloria married the
 
 * CAS A EEACC10. 299 
 
 great painter, the latter would efiectually keep 
 her from the stage. 
 
 As for Griggs, the Scotchman was well aware 
 that the poor young journalist might easily fall in 
 love with the beautiful girl. But this did not 
 deter him at all from having Griggs constantly at 
 the house. Griggs was the only man he had ever 
 met who did not bore him, who could be silent for 
 an hour at a time, who could swallow as much 
 strong wine as he without the slightest apparent 
 effect upon his manner, who understood all he 
 said, though sometimes saying things which he 
 could not understand in short, Griggs was a 
 necessity to him. The young man was perhaps 
 aware of the fact, and he found Dalrymple con 
 genial to his own temper; but he was as excessively 
 proud as he was extremely poor, at that time, and 
 he managed to refuse the greater part of the hospi 
 tality offered to him, simply because he could not 
 return it. It was very rarely that he accepted an 
 invitation to a meal, though he now generally came 
 in the evening, besides meeting Dalrymple almost 
 every morning when they went to the bookseller's 
 together. 
 
 He puzzled the Scotchman strangely. He was 
 an odd combination of a thinker and an athlete, 
 half literary man, half gladiator. The common 
 phrase 'an old head on young shoulders' described 
 him as well as any phrase could. The shoulders
 
 300 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 were perhaps the more remarkable, but the head 
 was not to be despised. A man who could break a 
 horseshoe and tear in two a pack of cards, and who 
 spent his spare time in studying Hegel and Kant, 
 when he was not writing political correspondence 
 for newspapers, deserved to be considered an 
 exception. He seemed to have no material wants, 
 and yet he had the animal power of enjoying mate 
 rial things even in excess, which is rare. He had 
 a couple of rooms in the Via della Frezza, between 
 the Corso and the Kipetta, where he lived in a 
 rather mysterious way, though he made no secret 
 about it. Occasionally an acquaintance climbed 
 the steep stairs, but no one ever got him to open 
 the door nor to give any sign that he was at home, 
 if he were within. A one-eyed cobbler acted as 
 porter downstairs, from morning till night, astride 
 upon his bench and ever at work, an ill-savoured 
 old pipe in his mouth. 
 
 "You may try," he answered, when any one 
 asked for Griggs. "Who knows? Perhaps Sor 
 Paolo will open. Try a little, if you have pa 
 tience." 
 
 Patience being exhausted, the visitor came down 
 the five flights again, and remonstrated with the 
 cobbler. 
 
 "I did not say anything," he would reply, in a 
 cloud of smoke. " Many have tried. I told you 
 to try. Am I to tell you that no one has ever got
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 301 
 
 in? Why? To disoblige you? If you want any 
 thing of Sor Paolo, say it to me. Or come again." 
 
 " But he will not open, " objected the visitor. 
 
 "Oh, that is true," returned the man of one eye. 
 " But if you wish to try, I am not here to hinder 
 you. This is the truth." 
 
 Now and then, some one more inquisitive sug 
 gested that there might be a lady in the question. 
 The one eye then fixed itself in a vacant stare. 
 
 "Females?" the cobbler would exclaim. "Not 
 even cats. What passes through your head? He 
 is alone always. If you do not believe me, you 
 can try. I do not say Sor Paolo will not open the 
 door. A door is a door, to be opened." 
 
 " But since I have tried ! " 
 
 "And I, what can I do? You have come, you 
 have seen, you have knocked, and no one has 
 opened. May the Madonna accompany you! I 
 can do nothing." 
 
 So even the most importunate of visitors departed 
 at last. But Griggs had taken Dalrymple up to 
 his lodgings more than once, and they had sat there 
 for an hour talking over books. Dalrymple ob 
 served, indeed, that Griggs was more inclined to 
 talk in his own rooms than anywhere else, and 
 that his manner then changed so much as to make 
 him almost seem to be a different man. There 
 was a look of interest in the stony mask, and there 
 was a light in the deep-set eyes which neither wine
 
 802 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 nor wit could bring there at other times. The 
 man wore his armour against the world, as it were, 
 a tough shell made up of a poor man's pride, and 
 solid with that sense of absolute physical superi 
 ority which is an element iu the character of strong 
 men, and which the Scotchman understood. He 
 himself had been of the strong, but not always 
 the strongest. Paul Griggs had never yet been 
 matched by any man since he had first got his 
 growth. He was the equal of many in intellect, 
 but his bodily strength was not equalled by any 
 in his youth and manhood. The secret of his one 
 well-hidden vanity lay in that. His moral power 
 showed itself in his assumed modesty about it, for 
 it was almost impossible to prevail upon him to 
 make exhibition of it. Gloria alone seemed able 
 to induce him, for her especial amusement, to break 
 a silver dollar with his fingers, or tear a pack of 
 cards, and then only in the presence of her father 
 or Eeanda, but never before other people. 
 
 "You are the strongest man in the world, are 
 you not?" she asked him once. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "I probably am, if it is I. 
 I am vain of it, but not proud of it. That makes 
 me think sometimes that I am two men in one. 
 That might account for it, you know." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " Gloria laughed. 
 
 "Is it? I daresay it is." And he relapsed into 
 indifference, so far as she could see.
 
 CASA BBACCIO. 303 
 
 "What is the other man like?" she asked. 
 "Not the strong man of the two, but the other ?" 
 
 "He is a good man. The strong man is bad. 
 They fight, and the result is insignificance. Some 
 day one of the two will get the better of the 
 other." 
 
 "What will happen then?" she asked lightly, 
 and still inclined to laugh. 
 
 " One or the other, or both, will die, I suppose, " 
 he answered. 
 
 " How very unpleasant ! " 
 
 She did not at all understand what he meant. 
 At the same time she could not help feeling that 
 he was eminently a man to whom she would turn 
 in danger or trouble. Girl though she was, she 
 could not mistake his great admiration of her, and 
 by degrees, as the winter wore on, she trusted him 
 more, though he still repelled her a little, for his 
 saturnine calm was opposed to her violent vitality, 
 as a black rock to a tawny torrent. Griggs had 
 neither the manner nor the temper which wins 
 women's hearts as a rule. Such men are some 
 times loved by women when their sorrow has 
 chained them to the rock of horror, and grief insa 
 tiable tears out their broken hearts. But in their 
 strength they are not loved. They cannot give 
 themselves yet, for their strength hinders them, 
 and women think them miserly of words and of 
 love's little coin of change. If they get love at
 
 304 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 last, it is as the pity which the unhurt weak feel 
 for the ruined strong. 
 
 Gloria was not above irritating Griggs occasion 
 ally, when the fancy took her to seek amusement 
 in that way. She knew how to do it, and he rarely 
 turned upon her, even in the most gentle way. 
 
 "We are good friends, are we not?" she asked 
 one day, when it was raining and he was alone 
 with her, waiting for her father to come in. 
 
 "I hope so," he answered, turning his impassive 
 face slowly towards her. 
 
 "Then you ought to be much nicer to me," she said. 
 
 "I am as nice as I know how to be," replied 
 Griggs, with fixed eyes. " What shall I do?" 
 
 "That is it. You ought to know. You could 
 talk and say pleasant things, for instance. Don't 
 you admit that you are very dull to-day?" 
 
 "I admit it. I regret it, and I wish I were not." 
 
 " You need not be. I am sure you can talk very 
 well, when you please. You are not exactly funny 
 at any time, but to-day you are funereal. You 
 remind me of those big black horses they use for 
 hearses, you know." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you," said Griggs, quietly, 
 repeating the words without emphasis. 
 
 "I don't like you!" she exclaimed petulantly, 
 but with a little laugh. 
 
 "I know that," he answered. "But I like you 
 very much. We were probably meant to differ."
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 305 
 
 " Then you might amuse me. It's awfully dull 
 when it rains. Pull the house down, or tear up 
 silver scudi, or something." 
 
 "I am not Samson, and I am not a clown," 
 observed Griggs, coldly. 
 
 " I shall never like you if you are so disagreea 
 ble," said Gloria, taking up a book, and settling 
 herself to read. 
 
 "I am afraid you never will," answered Griggs, 
 following her example. 
 
 A few minutes passed in silence. Then Gloria 
 looked up suddenly. 
 
 "Mr. Griggs?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I did not mean to be horrid." 
 
 "No, of course not." 
 
 "Because, if I were ever in trouble, you know 
 I should come straight to you." 
 
 "Thank you," he answered very gently. "But 
 I hope you will never be in trouble. If you ever 
 should be " He stopped. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I do not think you would find anybody who 
 would try harder to help you," he said simply. 
 
 She wished that his voice would tremble, or that 
 he would put out his hand towards her, or show 
 something a little more like emotion. But she had 
 to be satisfied. 
 
 " Would it be the good man or the bad man that 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 would help me,?" she asked, remembering the 
 former conversation. 
 
 "Both," answered Griggs, without hesitation. 
 
 "I am not sure that I might not like the bad 
 man better," said Gloria, almost to herself. 
 
 "Is Reanda a bad man?" inquired Griggs, 
 slowly, and looking for the blush in her face. 
 
 "Why?" But she blushed, as he expected. 
 
 "Because you like him better than me." 
 
 " You are quite different. It is of no use to talk 
 about it, and I want to read." 
 
 She turned from him and buried herself in her 
 book, but she moved restlessly two or three times, 
 and it was some minutes before the heightened 
 colour disappeared from her face. 
 
 She was very girlish still, and when she had 
 irritated Griggs as far as such a man was capable 
 of irritation, she preferred to refuse battle rather 
 than deal with the difficulty she had created. But 
 Griggs understood, and amongst his still small 
 sufferings he often felt the little, dull, hopeless 
 pang which tells a man that he is unlovable.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 VERY late, one night in the Carnival season, 
 Paul Griggs was walking the streets alone. His 
 sufferings were no longer so small as they had 
 been, and the bitterness of solitude was congenial 
 to him. 
 
 He had been at the house of a Spanish artist, 
 where there had been dancing and music and sup 
 per and improvised tableaux. Gloria and her 
 father and Reanda had all been there, too, and 
 something had happened which had stirred the 
 depths of the young man's slow temper. He hated 
 to make an exhibition of himself, and much against 
 his will he had been exhibited, as it were, to help 
 the gaiety of the entertainment. Cotogni, the 
 great sculptor, had suggested that Griggs should 
 appear as Samson, asleep with his head on Delilah's 
 knee, and bound by her with cords which he should 
 seem to break as the Philistines rushed in. He 
 had refused flatly, again and again, till all the 
 noisy party caught the idea and forced him to it. 
 
 They had dressed him in silk draperies, his 
 mighty arms bare almost to the shoulder, and they 
 
 had given him a long, dark, theatrical wig. They 
 307
 
 308 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 had bound his arms and chest with cords, and had 
 made him lie down and pretend to be asleep at the 
 feet of the artist's beautiful wife. They had made 
 slipping knots in the cords, so that he could easily 
 wrench them loose. Then the curtain had been 
 drawn aside, and there had been a pause as the 
 tableau was shown. All at once a mob of artists, 
 draped hastily in anything they could lay their 
 hands upon, and with all manner of helmets on 
 their heads from the Spaniard's collection, had 
 rushed in. 
 
 " The Philistines are upon thee ! " cried Delilah 
 in a piercing voice. 
 
 He sprang to his feet, his legs being free, and 
 he struggled with the cords. The knots would not 
 slip as they were meant to do. The situation lasted 
 several seconds, and was ridiculous enough. 
 
 People began to laugh. 
 
 "Cut off his hair! " cried one. 
 
 "Of what use was the wig?" laughed another, 
 and every one tittered. 
 
 Griggs could hear Gloria's clear, high laugh 
 above the rest. His blood slowly rose in his 
 throat. But no one pulled the curtain across. 
 The Philistines, young artists, mad with Carnival, 
 improvised a very eccentric dance of triumph, and 
 the laughter increased. 
 
 Griggs looked at the cords. Then his mask-like 
 face turned slowly to the audience. Only the great
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 309 
 
 veins swelled suddenly at his temples, while every 
 one watched him in the general amusement. 
 Suddenly his eyes flashed, and he drew a deep 
 breath, for he was angry. In an instant there was 
 dead silence in the room. A moment later one of 
 the cords, drawn tight round his chest, over the 
 silk robe, snapped like a thread, then another, and 
 then a third. Then in a sort of frenzy of anger 
 he savagely broke the whole cord into pieces with 
 his hands, tossing the bits contemptuously upon 
 the floor. His face was as white as a dead man's. 
 
 A roar of applause broke the silence when the 
 guests realized what he had done. The artists 
 seized him and carried him high in procession 
 round the room, the women threw flowers at him, 
 and some one struck up a triumphal march on the 
 piano. It was an ovation. Half an hour later, 
 dressed again in his ordinary clothes, he found him 
 self next to Gloria. 
 
 " You told me the other day that you were not 
 Samson," she said. "You see you can be when 
 you choose." 
 
 "No, "answered G-riggs, coldly; "I am a clown." 
 
 What she had said was natural enough, but some 
 how the satisfaction of his bodily vanity had stung 
 his moral pride beyond endurance. It seemed a 
 despicable thing to be as vain as he was of a gift 
 for which he had not paid any price. Deep down, 
 too, he felt bitterly that he had never received the
 
 310 CAS A BBACCIO. 
 
 slightest praise for any thought of his which he 
 had written down and sent to that cauldron of the 
 English daily press in which all individual right 
 to distinction disappears, with all claim to praise, 
 from written matter, however good it be. He 
 worked, he read, he studied, he wrote late, and 
 rose early to observe. But his natural gift was to 
 be a mountebank, a clown, a circus Hercules. By 
 stiffening one of his senseless arms he could bring 
 down roars of applause. By years of bitter labour 
 with his pen he earned the barest living. The 
 muscles that a porter might have, offered him opu 
 lence, because it was tougher by a few degrees than 
 the flesh of other men. The knowledge he had 
 striven for just kept him above absolute want. 
 
 He slipped away from the gay party as soon as 
 he could. His last glance round the room showed 
 him Angelo Reanda and Gloria, sitting in a corner 
 apart. The girl's face was grave. There was a 
 gentle and happy light in the artist's eyes which 
 Griggs had never seen. That also was the strong 
 man's portion. 
 
 Wrathfully he strode away from the house, under 
 the dim oil lamps, an unlighted cigar between his 
 teeth, his soft felt hat drawn over his eyes. He 
 crossed the city towards the Pantheon and the 
 Piazza Xavona, his cigar still unlighted. 
 
 The streets were alive, though it was very late. 
 There was more freedom to be gay and more hope
 
 CAS A BEACCIO. 311 
 
 of being simply happy in those days. Many men 
 and women wandered about in bands of ten or a 
 dozen, singing in soft voices, above which now 
 and then rose a few ringing tenor notes. There 
 was laughter everywhere in the air; tambourines 
 drummed and thumped and jingled, guitars twanged, 
 and mandolines tinkled and quavered. From a 
 dark lane somewhere off the broader thoroughfare, 
 a single voice sang out in serenade. The Corso 
 was bright with unusual lights, and strewn with 
 the birdseed and plaster-of -Paris ' confetti, ' with 
 yellow sand and sprigs of box leaves, and withering 
 flowers, and there was about all the neighbourhood 
 that peculiar smell of plaster and crushed flower- 
 stalks which belonged then to the street carnival of 
 Koine. Further on, in the dim quarters by the 
 Tiber, the wine shops were all crowded, and men 
 stood and drank outside on the pavement, and paid, 
 and went laughing on, laughing and singing, sing 
 ing and laughing, through the night. 
 
 Griggs felt the penetrating loneliness of him 
 who cannot laugh amidst laughter, and it was con 
 genial to him. He had always been alone, and he 
 felt that the world held no companion for him. 
 There was satisfaction in knowing that no one could 
 ever guess what went on between his heart and his 
 head. 
 
 He wandered on with the same even, untiring 
 stride, for a long time, through the dark and wind-
 
 312 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 ing ways, from the Pantheon through the old city, 
 through Piazza Paganica and Costaguti to Piazza 
 Montanara, where the carters and carriers congre 
 gate from the country. There, in the middle of 
 the three-cornered open space, a flag in the paving 
 marked the spot on which men used to be put to 
 death. To-night even the carriers were making 
 merry. Griggs was thirsty, and paused at the door 
 of a wine shop. Though it was winter, men were 
 sitting outside, for there was no more room within. 
 A flaring torch of pitched rope was stuck in an iron 
 ring, and shed an uncertain, smoky light upon the 
 men's faces. A drawer in an apron brought 
 Griggs a glass, and he drank standing. 
 
 " It makes no difference, " said a rough voice in 
 the little crowd. " They may cut off my head there 
 on the paving-stone. They would do me a favour. 
 If I find him, I kill him. An evil death on him 
 and all his house ! " 
 
 Griggs looked at the speaker without surprise, 
 for he had often heard such things said. He saw 
 an iron-grey man in good peasant's clothes of dark 
 blue with broad silver buttons, a man with a true 
 Roman face, a small aquiline nose, and keen, dark 
 eyes. He turned away, and began to retrace his 
 steps. 
 
 In half an hour he was at the door of the old 
 Falcone inn, gone now like many relics of that 
 day. It stood in the Piazza of Saint Eustace near
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 313 
 
 the Pantheon, and in its time was the best of the 
 old-fashioned eating-houses. G-riggs felt suddenly 
 hungry. He had walked seven or eight miles since 
 he had left the party. He entered, and passed 
 through the crowded rooms below and up the 
 narrow steps to a small upper chamber, where he 
 hoped to be alone. But there, also, every seat was 
 taken. 
 
 To his surprise Dalrymple and Reanda were at 
 the table furthest from him, in earnest conversa 
 tion, with a measure of wine between them. Griggs 
 had never seen the Italian there before, but the 
 latter caught sight of him as he stood in the door, 
 and rose to his feet, making a sign which meant 
 that he was going away, and that the chair was 
 vacant. Griggs came forward, and looked into his 
 face as they met. There was the same gentle and 
 happy light in Reanda' s eyes which had been there 
 when he was sitting with Gloria in the corner of 
 the Spanish artist's drawing-room. Then Griggs 
 understood and knew the truth, and guessed the 
 meaning of the unaccustomed pressure of the hand 
 as Reanda greeted him without speaking, and hur 
 riedly went out. 
 
 Dalrymple had seen Griggs coming and was 
 already calling to a man in a spotless white jacket 
 for another glass and more wine. The Scotchman's 
 bony face was" haggard, but there was a little colour 
 in his cheeks, and he seemed pleased.
 
 314 CASA BEACCIO. 
 
 "Sit down, Griggs," he said. "There are no 
 more chairs, so we can keep the table to ourselves. 
 I hope you are half as thirsty as I am." 
 
 "Rather more than half," answered the other, 
 and he drank eagerly. "Give me some more, 
 please," he said, holding out his glass. 
 
 " I see that you are in the right humour to hear 
 good news, " said the Scot. " Eeanda is to marry 
 my daughter in the summer." 
 
 "I congratulate you all three," said Griggs, 
 slowly, for he had known what was coming. " Let 
 us drink the health of the couple." 
 
 "By all means," answered Dalrymple, rilling 
 again. " By all means let us drink. I could not swal 
 low that sweet stuff at Mendoza's. This is better. 
 By all means let us drink as much as we can." 
 
 "That might mean a good deal," said Griggs, 
 quickly, and he drained a third glass. "Were 
 you ever drunk, Dalrymple ? " he inquired 
 gravely. 
 
 "No. I never was," answered the Scotchman. 
 
 "Nor I. This seems a fitting occasion for trying 
 an experiment. We might try to get drunk." 
 
 "By all means, let us try," replied Dalrymple. 
 "I have my doubts about the possibility of the 
 thing, however." 
 
 "So have I." 
 
 They sat opposite to one another in silence for 
 some minutes, each satisfied that the other was in
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 315 
 
 earnest. Dalrymple solemnly filled the glasses 
 and then leaned back in his chair. 
 
 " You did not seem much surprised by what 
 I told you," he observed at last. "I suppose you 
 expected it." 
 
 "Yes. It seemed natural enough, though it is 
 not always the natural things that happen." 
 
 " I think they are suited to marry. Of course, 
 Reanda is very much older, but he is comparatively 
 a young man still." 
 
 " Comparatively. He will make a better hus 
 band for having had experience, I daresay." 
 
 " That depends on what experience he has had. 
 When I first saw him I thought he was in love 
 with Donna Francesca. It would have been like 
 an artist. They are mostly fools. But I was 
 mistaken. He worships at a distance." 
 
 "And she preserves the distance," Griggs re 
 marked. "You are not drinking fair. My glass 
 is empty." 
 
 Dalrymple finished his and refilled both. 
 
 " I have been here some time," he observed, half 
 apologetically. " But as I was saying or rather, 
 as you were saying Donna Francesca preserves 
 the distance. These Italians do that admirably. 
 They know the difference between intimacy and 
 familiarity." 
 
 "That is a nice distinction," said Griggs. "I 
 will use it in my next letter. No. Donna Fran-
 
 316 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 cesca could never be familiar with any one. They 
 learn it when they are young, I suppose, and it 
 becomes a race-characteristic." 
 
 " What ? " asked Dalrymple, abruptly. 
 
 "A certain graceful loftiness," answered the 
 younger man. 
 
 The Scotchman's wrinkled eyelids contracted, 
 and he was silent for a few moments. 
 
 "A certain graceful loftiness," he repeated 
 slowly. "Yes, perhaps so. A certain graceful 
 loftiness." 
 
 "You seem struck by the expression," said 
 Griggs. 
 
 " I am. Drink, man, drink ! " added Dalrymple, 
 suddenly, in a different tone. "There's no time 
 to be lost if we mean to drink enough to hurt us 
 before those beggars go to bed." 
 
 " Never fear. They will be up all night. Not 
 that it is a reason for wasting time, as you say." 
 
 He drank his glass and watched Dalrymple as 
 the latter did likewise, with that deliberate inten 
 tion which few but Scotchmen can maintain on 
 such occasions. The wine might have been poured 
 into a quicksand, for any effect it had as yet 
 produced. 
 
 " Those race-characteristics of families are very 
 curious," continued Griggs, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Are they?" Dalrymple looked at him sus 
 piciously.
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 317 
 
 "Very. Especially voices. They run in fami 
 lies, like resemblance of features." 
 
 " So they do," answered the other, thoughtfully. 
 " So they do." 
 
 He had of late years got into the habit of often 
 repeating such short phrases, in an absent-minded 
 way. 
 
 "Yes," said Griggs. "I noticed Donna Fran- 
 cesca's voice, the first time I ever heard it. It 
 is one of those voices which must be inherited. 
 I am sure that all her family have spoken as 
 she does. It reminds me of something of some 
 one " 
 
 Dalrymple raised his eyes suddenly again, as 
 though he were irritated. 
 
 " I say," he began, interrupting his companion. 
 " Do you feel anything ? Anything queer in your 
 head ? " 
 
 "No. Why?" 
 
 "You are talking rather disconnectedly, that 
 is all." 
 
 " Am I ? It did not strike me that I was inco 
 herent. Probably one half of me was asleep while 
 the other was talking." He laughed drily, and 
 drank again. "No," he said thoughtfully, as he 
 set down his glass. "I feel nothing unusual ill 
 my head. It would be odd if I did, considering 
 that we have only just begun." 
 
 " So I thought," answered Dalrymple.
 
 318 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 He ordered more wine and relapsed into silence. 
 Neither spoke again for a long time. 
 
 "There goes another bottle," said Dalrymple, 
 at last, as he drained the last drops from the flagon 
 measure. "Drink a little faster. This is slow 
 work. We know the old road well enough." 
 
 "You are not inclined to give up the attempt, 
 are you?" inquired Griggs, whose still face 
 showed no change. " Is it fair to eat ? I am 
 hungry." 
 
 " Certainly. Eat as much as you like." 
 
 Griggs ordered something, which was brought 
 after considerable delay, and he began to eat. 
 
 " We are not loquacious over our cups," re 
 marked Dalrymple. " Should you mind telling 
 me why you are anxious to get drunk to-night for 
 the first time in your life?" 
 
 "I might ask you the same question," answered 
 Griggs, cautiously. 
 
 " Merely because you proposed it. It struck me 
 as a perfectly new idea. I have not much to 
 amuse me, you know, and I shall have less when 
 my daughter leaves me. It would be an amuse 
 ment to lose one's head in some way." 
 
 " In such a way as to be able to get it back, you 
 mean. I was walking this evening after the party, 
 and I came to the Piazza Montanara. There is a 
 big flagstone there on which people used to leave 
 their heads for good."
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 319 
 
 "Yes. I have seen it. You cannot tell me 
 much about Rome which I do not know." 
 
 " There were a lot of carriers drinking close by. 
 It was rather grim, I thought. An old fellow 
 there had a spite against somebody. You know 
 how they talk. ' They may cut off my head there 
 on the paving-stone/ the man said. 'If I find 
 him, I kill him. An evil death on him and all his 
 house ! ' You have heard that sort of thing. But 
 the fellow seemed to be very much in earnest." 
 
 "He will probably kill his man," said Dai 
 ry mple. 
 
 Suddenly his big, loose shoulders shook a little, 
 and he shivered. He glanced towards the window, 
 suspecting that it might be open. 
 
 " Are you cold ? " asked Griggs, carelessly. 
 
 " Cold ? No. Some one was walking over my 
 grave, as they say. If we varied the entertain 
 ment with something stronger, we should get on 
 faster, though." 
 
 "No," said G-riggs. "I refuse to mix things. 
 This may be the longer way, but it is the safer." 
 
 And he drank again. 
 
 "He was a man from Tivoli, or Subiaco," he 
 remarked presently. " He spoke with that accent." 
 
 " I daresay," answered Dalrymple, who looked 
 down into his glass at that moment, so that his 
 face was in shadow. 
 
 Just then four men who had occupied a table
 
 320 CASA BRACCIO. 
 
 near the door rose and went out. It was late, even 
 for a night in Carnival. 
 
 " I hope they are not going to leave us all to our 
 selves," said Dairy mple. "The place will be shut 
 up, and we need at least two hours more." 
 
 "At least," assented Paul Griggs. "But they 
 expect to be open all night. I think there is time." 
 
 The men at the other tables showed no signs of 
 moving. They sat quietly in their places, drinking 
 steadily, by sips. Some of them were eating roasted 
 chestnuts, and all were talking more or less in low 
 tones. Occasionally one voice or another rose above 
 the rest in an exclamation, but instantly subsided 
 again. Italians of that class are rarely noisy, for 
 though the Romans drink deep, they generally have 
 strong heads, and would be ashamed of growing 
 excited over their wine. 
 
 The air was heavy, for several men were smok 
 ing strong cigars. The vaulted chamber was 
 lighted by a single large oil lamp with a reflector, 
 hung by a cord from the intersection of the cross- 
 arches. The floor was of glazed white tiles, and 
 the single window had curtains of Turkey red. It 
 was all very clean and respectable and well kept, 
 even at that crowded season, but the air was heavy 
 with wine and tobacco, and the smell of cooked 
 food, a peculiar atmosphere in which the old- 
 fashioned Eoman delighted to sit for hours on 
 holidays.
 
 CASA BRACCIO. 321 
 
 Dairy mple looked about him, moving his pale 
 blue eyes without turning his head. The colour 
 had deepened a little on his prominent cheek 
 bones, and his eyes were less bright than usual. 
 But his red hair, growing sandy with grey, was 
 brushed smoothly back, and his evening dress was 
 unruffled. He and Griggs were so evidently gen 
 tlemen, that some of the Italians at the other 
 tables glanced at them occasionally in quiet sur 
 prise, not that they should be there, but that they 
 should remain so long, and so constantly renew 
 their order for another bottle of wine. 
 
 Giulio, the stout, dark drawer in a spotless jacket, 
 moved about silently and quickly. One of the 
 Italians glanced at Griggs and Dalrymple and then 
 at the waiter, who also glanced at them quickly 
 and then shrugged his shoulders almost percepti 
 bly. Dalrymple saw both glances, and his eyes 
 lighted up. 
 
 " I believe that fellow is laughing at us, " he said 
 to Griggs. 
 
 "There is nothing to laugh at," answered the 
 latter, unmoved. " But of course, if you think so, 
 throw him downstairs." 
 
 Dalrymple laughed drily. 
 
 " There is a certain calmness about the sugges 
 tion, "he said. "It has a good, old-fashioned ring 
 to it. You are not a very civilized young man, 
 considering your intellectual attainments."
 
 322 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 "I grew up at sea and before the mast. That 
 may account for it." 
 
 " You seem to have crammed a good deal into a 
 short life," observed Dalrymple. "It must have 
 been a classic ship, where they taught Greek and 
 Latin." 
 
 " The captain used to call her his Ship of Fools. 
 As a matter of fact, it was rather classic, as you 
 say. The old man taught us navigation and Greek 
 verse by turns for five years. He was a university 
 man with a passion for literature, but I never knew 
 a better sailor. He put me ashore when I was 
 seventeen with pretty nearly the whole of my five 
 years' pay in my pocket, and he made me promise 
 that I would go to college and stay as long as my 
 money held out. I got through somehow, but I am 
 not sure that I bless him. He is afloat still, and I 
 write to him now and then." 
 
 "An Englishman, I suppose?" 
 
 "No. An American." 
 
 " What strange people you Americans are ! " ex 
 claimed Dalrymple, and he drank again. "You 
 take up a profession, and you wear it for a bit, like 
 a coat, and then change it for another, " he added, 
 setting down his empty glass. 
 
 "Very much like you Scotch," answered Griggs. 
 "I have heard you say that you were a doctor 
 once." 
 
 " A doctor yes in a way, for the sake of be-
 
 CA8A BBACCIO. 323 
 
 ing a man of science, or believing myself to be 
 one. My family was opposed to it," he continued 
 thoughtfully. "My father told me it was his 
 sincere belief that science did not stand in need of 
 any help from me. He said I was more likely to 
 need the help of science, like other lunatics. I 
 will not say that he was not right. " 
 
 He laughed a little and filled his glass. 
 
 " Poor Dairy mple ! " he exclaimed softly, still 
 smiling. 
 
 Paul Griggs raised his slow eyes to his compan 
 ion's face. 
 
 " It never struck me that you were much to be 
 pitied," he observed. 
 
 " No, no. Perhaps not. But I will venture to 
 say that the point is debatable, and could be argued. 
 'To be, or not to be ' is a question admirably cal 
 culated to draw out the resources of the intellect 
 in argument, if you are inclined for that sort of 
 diversion. It is a very good thing, a very good 
 thing for a man to consider and weigh that ques 
 tion while he is young. Before he goes to sleep, 
 you know, Griggs, before he goes to sleep." 
 
 " ' For in that sleep of death, what dreams may 
 come ' " Griggs quoted, and stopped. 
 
 "' When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.' 
 You do not know your Shakespeare, young man." 
 
 "' Must give us pause,' " continued Griggs. "I 
 was thinking of the dreams, not of the rest."
 
 324 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 "Dreams? Yes. There will be dreams there. 
 Dreams, and other things 'this ae night of all.' 
 Not that my reason admits that they can be more 
 than dreams, you know, Griggs. Eeason says 'to 
 sleep no more.' And fancy says 'perchance to 
 dream.' Well, well, it will be a long dream, that's 
 all." 
 
 "Yes. We shall be dead a long time. Better 
 drink now." And Griggs drank. 
 
 " 'Fire and sleet and candle-light, 
 And Christ receive thy soul ; ' " 
 
 said Dalrymple, with a far-away look in his pale 
 eyes. "Do you know the Lyke-Wake Dirge, 
 Griggs? It is a grand dirge. Hark to the swing 
 
 of it. 
 
 1 This ae night, this ae night, 
 
 Every night and all, 
 Fire and sleet and candle-light, 
 And Christ receive thy soul.'" 
 
 He repeated the strange words in a dull, matter- 
 of-fact way, with a Scotch accent rarely perceptible 
 in his conversation. Griggs listened. He had 
 heard the dirge before, with all its many stanzas, 
 and it had always had an odd fascination for him. 
 He said nothing. 
 
 "It bodes no good to be singing a dirge at a 
 betrothal," said the Scotchman, suddenly. " Drink, 
 man, drink! Drink till the blue devils flyaway. 
 Drink 
 
 4 Till a' the seas gang dry, my love, 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. '
 
 ' Fire and sleet and candle-light ; 
 And Christ receive thy soul." 
 
 Vol. I., p. 324.
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 325 
 
 Not that it is in the disposition of the Italian 
 inn-keeper to give us time for that," he added 
 drily. "As I was saying, I am of a melancholic 
 temper. Xot that I take you for a gay man your 
 self, Griggs. Drink a little more. It is my opinion 
 that a little more will produce an agreeable impres 
 sion upon you, my young friend. Drink a little 
 more. You are too grave for so very young a man. 
 I should not wish to be indiscreet, but I might 
 almost take you for a man in love, if I did not 
 know you better. Were you ever in love, Griggs? " 
 
 "Yes," answered Griggs, quietly. "And you, 
 Dalrymple? Were you never in love?" 
 
 Dalrymple's loosely hung shoulders started sud 
 denly, and his pale blue eyes set themselves steadily 
 to look at Griggs. The red brows were shaggy, 
 and there was a bright red spot on each cheek bone. 
 He did not answer his companion's question, though 
 his lips moved once or twice as though he were 
 about to speak. They seemed unable to form words, 
 and no sound came from them. 
 
 His anger was near, perhaps, and with another 
 man it might have broken out. But the pale and 
 stony face opposite him, and the deep, still eyes, 
 exercised a quieting influence, and whatever words 
 rose to his lips were never spoken. Griggs under 
 stood that he had touched the dead body of a great 
 passion, sacred in its death as it must have been 
 overwhelming in its life. He struck another sub-
 
 326 CAS A BBACC1O. 
 
 ject immediately, and pretended not to have noticed 
 Dalrymple's expression. 
 
 " I like your queer old Scotch ballads, " he said, 
 humouring the man's previous tendency to quote 
 poetry. 
 
 "There's a lot of life in them still," answered 
 Dairy mple, absently twisting his empty glass. 
 
 Griggs filled it for him, and they both drank. 
 Little by little the Italians had begun to go away. 
 Giulio, the fat, white-jacketed drawer, sat nodding 
 in a corner, and the light from the high la'mp 
 gleamed on his smooth black hair as his head fell 
 forward. 
 
 " There is a sincere vitality in our Scotch poets, " 
 said Dalrymple, as though not satisfied with the 
 short answer he had given. "There is a very nota 
 ble power of active living exhibited in their some 
 what irregular versification, and in the concatena 
 tion of their ratiocinations regarding the three 
 principal actions of the early Scottish life, which 
 I take to have been birth, stealing, and a violent 
 death." 
 
 "'But of these three charity is the greatest,'' 
 observed Griggs, with something like a laugh, for 
 he saw that Dalrymple was beginning to make long 
 sentences, which is a bad sign for a Scotchman's 
 sobriety. 
 
 "No," answered Dalrymple, with much gravity. 
 " There I venture indeed, I claim the right to
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 327 
 
 differ with you. For the Scotchman is hospitable, 
 but not charitable. The process of the Scotch mind 
 is unitary, if you will allow me to coin a word for 
 which I will pay with my glass." 
 
 And he forthwith fulfilled the obligation in a 
 deep draught. Setting down the tumbler, he 
 leaned back in his chair and looked slowly round 
 the room. His lips moved. Griggs could just 
 distinguish the last lines of another old ballad. 
 
 " ' Night and day on me she cries, 
 And I am weary of the skies 
 Since '" 
 
 He broke off and shook himself nervously, and 
 looked at Griggs, as though wondering whether 
 the latter had heard. 
 
 "This wine is good," he said, rousing himself. 
 "Let us have some more. Giulio! " 
 
 The fat waiter awoke instantly at the call, 
 looked, nodded, went out, and returned immedi 
 ately with another bottle. 
 
 "Is this the sixth or the seventh?" asked Dal- 
 rymple, slowly. 
 
 "Eight with Signor Eeanda's," answered the 
 man. " But Signor Eeanda paid for his as he went 
 out. You have therefore seven. It might be 
 enough." Giulio smiled. 
 
 "Bring seven more, Giulio," said the Scotchman, 
 gravely. "It will save you six journeys."
 
 328 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 "Does the Signore speak in earnest?" asked the 
 servant, and he glanced at Griggs, who was impas 
 sive as marble. 
 
 "You flatter yourself," said Dalrymple, impres 
 sively, to the man, " if you imagine that I would 
 make even a bad joke to amuse you. Bring seven 
 bottles." Giulio departed. 
 
 "That is a Homeric order," observed Griggs. 
 
 " I think in fact, I am almost sure that seven 
 bottles more will produce an impression upon one 
 of us. But I have a decidedly melancholic dispo 
 sition, and I accustomed myself to Italian wine 
 when I was very young. Melancholy people can 
 drink more than others. Besides, what does such 
 a bottle hold? I will show you. A tumbler to 
 you, and one to me. Drink; you shall see." 
 
 He emptied his glass and poured the remainder 
 of the bottle into it. 
 
 "Do you see? Half a tumbler. Two and a half 
 are a bottle. Seven bottles are seventeen and a 
 half glasses. What is that for you or me in a long 
 evening? My blue devils are large. It would 
 take an ocean to float them all. I insist upon 
 going to bed in a good humour to-night, for once, 
 in honour of my daughter's engagement. By the 
 bye, Griggs, what do you think of Reanda? " 
 
 " He is a first-rate artist. I like him very well." 
 
 " A good man, eh ? Well, well from the point 
 of view of discretion, Griggs, I am doing right.
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 329 
 
 But then, as you may very wisely object, discretion 
 is only a point of view. The important thing is 
 the view, and not the point. Here comes Gany 
 mede with the seven vials of wrath ! Put them on 
 the table, Giulio," he said, as the fat waiter came 
 noiselessly up, carrying the bottles by the necks 
 between his fingers, three in one hand and four in 
 the other. " They make a fine show, all together, " 
 he observed thoughtfully, with his bony head a 
 little on one side. 
 
 " And may God bless you ! " said Giulio, sol 
 emnly. "If you do not die to-night, you will 
 never die again." 
 
 "I regard it as improbable that we shall die 
 more than once," answered Dalrymple. "I be 
 lieve," he said, turning to Griggs, "that when men 
 are drunk they make mistakes about money. We 
 will pay now, while we are sober." 
 
 Griggs insisted on paying his share. They set 
 tled, and Giulio went away happy. 
 
 The two strong men sat opposite to each other, 
 under the high lamp in the small room, drinking 
 on and on. There was something terrifying in the 
 Scotchman's determination to lose his senses 
 something grimly horrible in the younger man's 
 marble impassiveness, as he swallowed glass for 
 glass in time with his companion. His face grew 
 paler still, and colder, but there was a far-off 
 gleaming in the shadowy eyes, like the glimmer of
 
 330 CAS A BRACCIO. 
 
 a light over a lonely plain through the dark. Dal- 
 rymple's spirits did not rise, but he talked more 
 and more, and his sentences became long and in 
 volved, and sometimes had no conclusion. The 
 wine was telling on him at last. He' had never 
 been so strong as Griggs, at his best, and he was 
 no match for him now. The younger man's 
 strangely dual nature seemed to place his head 
 beyond anything which could affect his senses. 
 
 Dairy mple talked on and on, rambling from one 
 subject to another, and not waiting for any answer 
 when he asked a question. He quoted long ballads 
 and long passages from Shakespeare, and then 
 turned suddenly off upon a scientific subject, until 
 some word of his own suggested another quotation. 
 
 Griggs sat quietly in his seat, drinking as stead 
 ily, but paying little attention now to what the 
 Scotchman said. Something had got hold of his 
 heart, and was grinding it like grain between the 
 millstones, grinding it to dust and ashes. He 
 knew that he could not sleep that night. He might 
 as well drink, for it could not hurt him. Nothing 
 material had power to hurt him, it seemed. He 
 felt the pain of longing for the utterly unattaina 
 ble, knowing that it was beyond him forever. The 
 widowhood of the unsatisfied is hell, compared 
 with the bereavement of complete possession. He 
 had not so much as told Gloria that he had loved 
 her. How could he, being but one degree above
 
 CAS A BBACCIO. 331 
 
 a beggar? The unspoken words burned furrows 
 in his heart, as molten metal scores smoking chan 
 nels in living flesh. Gloria would laugh, if she 
 knew. The torture made his face white. There 
 was the scorn of himself with it, because a mere 
 child could hurt him almost to death, and that 
 made it worse. A mere child, barely out of the 
 schoolroom, petulant, spoiled, selfish! 
 
 But she had the glory of heaven in her voice, 
 and in her face the fatal beauty of her dead mother's 
 deadly sin. He need not have despised himself 
 for loving her. Her whole being appealed to that 
 in man to which no woman ever appealed in vain 
 since the first Adam sold heaven to Satan for 
 woman's love. 
 
 Dalrymple, leaning on his elbow, one hand in 
 his streaked beard, the other grasping his glass, 
 talked on and quoted more and more. 
 
 " ' The flame took fast upon her cheek, 
 
 Took fast upon her chin, 
 Took fast upon her fair body 
 Because of her deadly sin.' " 
 
 His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper at the 
 last words, and suddenly, regardless of his com 
 panion, his hand covered his eyes, and his long 
 fingers strained desperately on his bony forehead. 
 Griggs watched him, thinking that he was drunk 
 at last.
 
 332 CAS A BEACCIO. 
 
 " Because of her deadly sin," he repeated slowly, 
 and the tone changed. "There is no sin in it!" 
 he cried suddenly, in a low voice, that had a dis 
 tant, ghostly ring in it. 
 
 He looked up, and his eyes were changed, and 
 Griggs knew that they no longer saw him. 
 
 "Stiff," he said softly. "Quite stiff. Dead 
 two or three hours, I daresay. It stands up on 
 its feet beside me certainly dead two or three 
 hours." 
 
 He nodded wisely to himself twice, and then 
 spoke again in the same far-off tone, gazing past 
 Griggs, at the wall. 
 
 " The clothes-basket is a silly idea. Besides, 
 I should lose the night. Rather carry it myself 
 wrap it up in the plaid. She'll never know, when 
 she has it on her head. Who cares ? " 
 
 A long silence followed. One hand grasped the 
 empty glass. The other lay motionless on the 
 table. The blue eyes, with widely dilated pupils, 
 stared at the wall, never blinking nor turning. 
 But in the face there was the drawn expression of 
 a bodily effort. Presently Griggs saw the fin 
 beads of perspiration on the great forehead. Then 
 the voice spoke again, but in Italian this time. 
 
 "You had better look away while I go by. It is 
 not a pretty sight. No," he continued, changing 
 to English, " not at all a pretty sight. Stiff as a 
 board still."
 
 CAS A BRACCIO. 333 
 
 The unwinking eyes dilated. The bright colour 
 was gone from the cheek bones. 
 
 "It burns very well," he said again in Italian. 
 The whole face quivered and the hard lips softened 
 and kissed the air. " It is golden I can see it in 
 the dark but I must cover it, darling. Quick 
 this way. At last ! No you cannot see the fire, 
 but it is burning well, I am sure. Hold on ! Hold 
 the pommel of the saddle with both hands so ! " 
 
 The voice ceased. Griggs began to understand. 
 He touched Dalrymple's sleeve, leaning across the 
 table. 
 
 " I say ! " he called softly. " Dalrymple ! " 
 
 The Scotchman started violently, and the pupils 
 of his eyes contracted. The empty glass in his 
 right hand rattled on the hard wood. Then he 
 smiled vaguely at Griggs. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he exclaimed in his natural voice. 
 " I think I must have been napping ' Sleep'ry 
 Sim of the Lamb-hill, and snoring Jock of Suport- 
 mill ! ' By Jove, Griggs, we have got near the 
 point at last. One bottle left, eh ? The seventh. 
 
 " ' Then up and gat the seventh o' them, 
 And never a word spake he ; 
 But he has striped his bright brown brand ' 
 
 The rest has no bearing upon the subject," he 
 concluded, filling both glasses. " Griggs," he said, 
 - before he drank, "I am afraid this settles the 
 matter." 
 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 334 CASA BBACCIO. 
 
 " I am afraid it does," said Griggs. 
 
 "Yes. I had hopes a little while ago, which 
 appeared well founded. But that unfortunate 
 little nap has sent me back to the starting-point. 
 I should have to begin all over again. It is very 
 late, I fancy. Let us drink this last glass to our 
 own two selves, and then give it up." 
 
 Something had certainly sobered the Scotchman 
 again, or at least cleared his head, for he had not 
 been drunk in the ordinary sense of the word. 
 
 " It cannot be said that we have not given the 
 thing a fair trial," said Griggs, gloomily. " I shall 
 certainly not take the trouble to try it again." 
 
 Xevertheless he looked at his companion curi 
 ously, as they both rose to their feet together. 
 Dalrymple doubled his long arms as he stood up 
 and stretched them out. 
 
 "It is curious," he said. "I feel as though I had 
 been carrying a heavy weight in my arms. I did 
 once, for some distance," he added thoughtfully, 
 " and I remember the sensation." 
 
 " Very odd," said Griggs, lighting a cigar. 
 
 Giulio, sitting outside, half asleep, woke up as he 
 heard the steady tread of the two strong men go by. 
 
 "If you do not die to-night, you will never die 
 again ! " he said, half aloud, as he rose to go in and 
 clear the room where the guests had been sitting. 
 
 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
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