t at the old man's feet, taking hold of his hands and giving
him such a passionate, loving glance that he seemed to be offering all
the blood of his heart to spare him the slightest grief.

"It is about the death of that poor woman," Orlando sadly answered. "I
was telling Monsieur Froment how it grieved me, and I added that I could
not yet understand it all. The papers talk of a sudden death which is
always so extraordinary."

The young Count rose again looking very pale. The priest had not yet
spoken. But what a frightful moment was this! What if he should reply,
what if he should speak out?

"You were present, were you not?" continued the old man addressing
Pierre. "You saw everything. Tell me then how the thing happened."

Luigi Prada looked at Pierre. Their eyes met fixedly, plunging into one
another's souls. All began afresh in their minds, Destiny on the march,
Santobono encountered with his little basket, the drive across the
melancholy Campagna, the conversation about poison while the little
basket was gently rocked on the priest's knees; then, in particular, the
sleepy _osteria_, and the little black hen, so suddenly killed, lying on
the ground with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak.
And next there was that splendid ball at the Buongiovanni mansion, with
all its _odore di femina_ and its triumph of love: and finally, before
the Palazzo Boccanera, so black under the silvery moon, there was the man
who lighted a cigar and went off without once turning his head, allowing
dim Destiny to accomplish its work of death. Both of them, Pierre and
Prada, knew that story and lived it over again, having no need to recall
it aloud in order to make certain that they had fully penetrated one
another's soul.

Pierre did not immediately answer the old man. "Oh!" he murmured at last,
"there were frightful things, yes, frightful things."

"No doubt--that is what I suspected," resumed Orlando. "You can tell us
all. In presence of death my son has freely forgiven."

The young Count's gaze again sought that of Pierre with such weight, such
ardent entreaty that the priest felt deeply stirred. He had just
remembered that man's anguish during the ball, the atrocious torture of
jealousy which he had undergone before allowing Destiny to avenge him.
And he pictured also what must have been his feelings after the terrible
outcome of it all: at first stupefaction at Destiny's harshness, at this
full vengeance wh