ine
o'clock in the evening, and on finding the door of his master's room
locked had broken in, suspecting some terrible accident. He had found
the count stretched upon the floor, in evening dress, with his own
revolver lying beside him.

That was precisely what had happened, but the meagre account gave no
idea of the confusion which had ensued upon the discovery. It contained
no mention of Matilde nor of Veronica, and merely observed that the
brother of the deceased was overcome with grief.

That would have been too weak an expression to apply to what Matilde
suffered during the hours which followed the first appalling blow. In
the overpowering horror of the situation, she did not lose her mind,
but she sincerely believed that her body could not live till the
morning.

To do her justice, as she sat there beside the dead man, bent and
doubled in silent, tearless grief, a dark shawl drawn over her head to
hide her face, and utterly regardless, for once, of what any one might
think, she thought only of him and of what she had done. For she
understood, and she only, in all the household.

Beyond her conscious thoughts, if they could be called thoughts at all,
the black figures of the forbidding future loomed darkly in her
consciousness. They were the things she knew, rather than the things she
felt, but the terror of what was to be was as real as the grief for what
had been, though as yet it had less strength to move her. The blow had
struck her down, and until she should try to rise she could feel nothing
but the blow. In truth she did not think that she should live until the
morning.

It was midnight when they lit candles, and set them beside him in great
candlesticks as he lay. And she sat down at his feet and watched his
still face, from beneath the shawl that hung over her head. It had been
in her hands when they had told her, and her fingers had closed upon it
stiffly; so she had it when she came to his room. She was glad, for she
could cover herself from the eyes of those who came and went, but her
own eyes could see out, from under it, and no tears blinded her. After
she had sat down, she did not move.

Gregorio Macomer had come, and had gone away, and then he had come
again, when all was done, and had knelt a long time beside the couch on
which his brother lay, repeating prayers audibly. His face was as grey
as a stone. He only spoke to give directions in a whisper, and he said
nothing to his wife, but let