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 Dalrymple 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 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, intending 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 secrecy, and then to
come downstairs 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. Her ears had deceived
her, and Dalrymple 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
probable. She tapped softly, but th