ed. He was gaunt and pale, and more like San
Giacinto than ever. There was a settled hardness in his face which was
never again to disappear permanently. But he was horror-struck by
Spicca's appearance. He had no idea that a man already so cadaverous
could still change as the old man had changed. Spicca seemed little more
than a grey shadow barely resting upon the white bed. He put the
telegram into Orsino's hands. The young man read it twice and his face
expressed his astonishment. Spicca smiled faintly, as he watched him.

"What does it mean?" asked Orsino. "Of what truth does she speak? She
hated you, and now, all at once, she loves you. I do not understand."

"How should you?" The old man spoke in a clear, thin voice, very unlike
his own. "You could not understand. But before I die, I will tell you."

"Do not talk of dying--"

"No. It is not necessary. I realise it enough, and you need not realise
it at all. I have not much to tell you, but a little truth will
sometimes destroy many falsehoods. You remember the story about Lucrezia
Ferris? Maria Consuelo wrote it to you."

"Remember it! Could I forget it?"

"You may as well. There is not a word of truth in it. Lucrezia Ferris is
not her mother."

"Not her mother!"

"No. I only wonder how you could ever have believed that a Piedmontese
nurse could be the mother of Maria Consuelo. Nor am I Maria Consuelo's
father. Perhaps that will not surprise you so much. She does not
resemble me, thank Heaven!"

"What is she then? Who is she?" asked Orsino impatiently.

"To tell you that I must tell you the story. When I was young--very long
before you were born--I travelled much, and I was well received. I was
rich and of good family. At a certain court in Europe--I was at one time
in the diplomacy--I loved a lady whom I could not have married, even had
she been free. Her station was far above mine. She was also considerably
older than I, and she paid very little attention to me, I confess. But I
loved her. She is just dead. She was that princess mentioned in this
telegram. Do you understand? Do you hear me? My voice is weak."

"Perfectly. Pray go on."

"Maria Consuelo is her grandchild--the granddaughter of the only woman I
ever loved. Understand that, too. It happened in this way. My Princess
had but one daughter, the Princess Marie, a mere child when I first saw
her--not more than fourteen years old. We were all in Nice, one winter
thirty years ago--some four year