ed neither
her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten
her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What
prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For
what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their
love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself
made her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must
talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran
down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom
she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel.

She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on
without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Giselle!
Giselle!" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name
at the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing,
distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted
past her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring
straight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and
vanished.

Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All
was still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree
under which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a
succession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon
the grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in
the moonlight.

The Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a
monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her
hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred.

"What have you done?" she asked, in her ordinary voice.

"I have shot Ramirez--infame!" he answered, with his eyes directed to
where the shade was blackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thief he
fell. The child had to be protected."

He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood
there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the
honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm,
firm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the
blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground,
and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her
strained hearing.

"I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you
prom