had
suddenly passed from him into a darkness that was sacred. What right had
he to try to share it?

And yet--if that great shape of fear were not the body of a lie, but of
the truth?

Never had he felt so impotent, so utterly unworthy of his manhood.

He moved away, turned, came back and stood once more beneath the window.
Ought he to go up to Hermione's door, to knock, to speak, to insist on
admittance? And if there was no reply?--what ought he to do then? Break
down the door?

He went into the house. Vere was sitting in the drawing-room looking at
the door. She sprang up.

"Is there a light in Madre's room?"

"No."

He saw, as he answered, that she caught his fear, that hers now had the
same shape as his.

"Monsieur Emile, you--you don't think--?"

Her voice faltered, her bright eyes became changed, dim, seemed to sink
into her head.

"You must go to her room. Go to Madre, Monsieur Emile, Go! Speak to her!
Make her answer! Make her! make her!"

She put her hands on him. She pushed him frantically.

He took her hands and held them tightly.

"I am going, Vere. Don't be frightened!"

"But you are frightened! You are frightened!"

"I will speak to your mother. I will beg her to answer."

"And if she doesn't answer?"

"I will get into the room."

He let go her hands and went towards the door. Just as he reached it
there came from below in the house a loud, shrill cry. It was followed
by an instant of silence, then by another cry, louder, nearer than
before. And this time they could hear the words:

"_La fattura della morte_! _La fattura della morte_!"

Running, stumbling feet sounded outside, and Peppina appeared at the
door, her disfigured face convulsed with terror, her hand out-stretched.

"Look!" she cried shrilly. "Look, Signorina! Look, Signore! _La fattura
della morte_! _La fattura della morte_! It has been brought to the house
to-night! It has been put in my room to-night!"

In her hand lay a green lemon pierced by many nails.

CHAPTER XL

"Monsieur Emile, what is it?" exclaimed Vere.

The frightened servants were gone, half coaxed and half scolded into
silence by Artois. He had taken the lemon from Peppina, and it lay now
in his hand.

"It is what the people of Naples call a death-charm."

"A death-charm?"

In her eyes superstition dawned.

"Why do they call it that?"

"Because it is supposed to bring death to any one--any enemy--near whom
it is placed."

"Who can h