ch the red eyes gleamed wickedly. "Fool!"
he answered impatiently. "It was as I said. The man was mad with
jealousy. There is his pistol on the floor. I am going now to inform
the authorities and to fetch the _carabinieri_."

He went out, and Vincenzo did not try to prevent him.

"Signorino! signorino! answer me. _Madonna benedetta!_ What shall I
say to Ser 'Ilario?" The little man's face worked, and tears ran down
his cheeks as he knelt there at his master's side, stooping to feel
for the fluttering of the faint breath, the beating of the pulse of
life. Surely there was no mortal wound--the shoulder--yes; and the
side, and the right arm, since all the sleeve was soaked in warm
blood.

All those who have been dragged down into the great darkness that
shrouds the gate of Death know that the first sense vouchsafed to
the returning soul is that of hearing. There was a sound of the sea
in Jean's ears, a weary sound of wailing and distress, through which
words came presently by ones and twos and threes. Words that seemed
a long way off, and yet near, as though they were stones dropped
upon him from a great height: ... signorina ... not mortal ...
healed ... care ... twenty masses to the Madonna at the _Santissima
Annunziata_ ...

Sight came next as the sea that had roared about him seemed to ebb,
leaving him still on the shore of this world. He opened his eyes and
lay for a moment staring up at the white ceiling until full
consciousness returned, and with it the sharp, stabbing pain of his
wounds, the acrid taste of blood in his mouth, the remembrance of
love. Olive.... Had he not tried to reach her and failed? He groaned
as he turned his aching head now on the pillow to see her where she
lay.

Vincenzo had cared for his master, had slit up that red, wet sleeve
with his sharp knife, and had bandaged the torn flesh as well as he
was able; and now, very gently, but without any skill, he was fumbling
at the girl's breast.

Jean made an effort to speak but his lips made no intelligible sounds
at first. The servant came running to him joyfully nevertheless.
"Signorino! You are better?"

The kind brown eyes smiled through the dimness of their pain.

"Good Vincenzo ... well done. She ... she's not dead?"

"Oh, no, signorino--at least--I am not sure," the man faltered.

"The wound is near the heart, is it not? Lay her down here beside me
and I will keep it closed with my hand," Jean said faintly. "Lift her
and lay her