seech you, in the name of heaven," she cried wildly.

"It is not of the slightest use," answered Marzio, drawing back. Lucia
knelt for one moment before him, with upturned face, an expression of
imploring despair on her features. Then she sank down in a heap upon the
floor against the three-legged stool, which tottered, lost its balance
under her weight, and fell over upon the bricks with a loud crash. The
poor girl had fainted away.

Marzio was startled by the sight and the sound, and then, seeing what
had happened, he was very much frightened. He knelt down beside his
daughter's prostrate body and bent over her face. He raised her up in
his long, nervous arms, and lifted her to the old chair till she sat
upon it, and he supported her head and body, kneeling on the floor
beside her. A sharp pain shot through his heart, the faint indication of
a love not wholly extinguished.

"Lucia, dear Lucia!" he said, in a voice so tender that it sounded
strangely in his own ears. But the gill gave no sign. Her head would
have fallen forward if he had not supported it with his hands.

"My daughter! Little Lucia! You are not dead--tell me you are not dead!"
he cried. In his fright and sudden affection he pressed his lips to her
face, kissing her again and again. "I did not mean to hurt you, darling
child," he repeated, as though she could hear him speak.

At last her eyes opened. A shiver ran through her body and she raised
her head. She was very pale as she leaned back in the chair. Marzio took
her hands and robbed them between his dark fingers, still looking into
her eyes.

"Ah!" she gasped, "I thought I was dead." Then, as Marzio seemed about
to speak, she added faintly: "Don't say it again!"

"Lucia--dear Lucia! I knew you were not dead I knew you would come back
to me," he said, still in very tender tones. "Forgive me, child--I did
not mean to hurt you."

"No? Oh, papa! Then why did you say it?" she cried, suddenly bursting
into tears and weeping upon his shoulder. "Tell me it is not true--tell
me so!" she sobbed.

Marzio was almost as much disconcerted by Lucia's return to
consciousness as he had been by her fainting away. His nature had
unbent, momentarily, under the influence of his strong fear for his
daughter's life. Now that she had recovered so quickly, he remembered
Gianbattista's violence and scornful words, and he seemed to feel the
young man's strong hand upon his mouth, stifling his speech. He
hesitated, r