s, and
two rubies flashed from the deep eye-sockets. On the forehead was
engraved, _Ruit Hora_; and on the occiput _Tibi_, _Hippolyta_. It opened
like a box, the hinging being almost imperceptible, and the ticking
inside lent an indescribable air of life to the diminutive skull. This
sepulchral jewel, the offering of some unknown artist to his mistress,
had doubtless marked many an hour of rapture, and served as a warning
symbol to their amorous souls.

Could a lover wish for anything more exquisite and more suggestive? 'Has
she any special reason for recommending this to me?' thought Andrea, all
his hopes reviving on the instant. He threw himself into the bidding
with a sort of fury. Two or three others bid against him, notably
Giannetto Rutolo, who, being in love with Donna Ippolita Albonico, was
attracted by the dedication: _Tibi, Hippolyta_.

Presently Rutolo and Sperelli were left alone in the contest. The
bidding rose higher than the actual value of the article, which forced a
smile from the auctioneer. At last, vanquished by his adversary's
determination, Giannetto Rutolo was silent.

'Going--going--!'

Donna Ippolita's lover, a little pale, cried one last sum. Sperelli
named a higher--there was a moment's silence. The auctioneer looked from
one to the other, then he raised his hammer and slowly, still looking at
the two--'Going--going--gone!'

The Death's-head fell to the Conte d'Ugenta. A murmur ran round the
room. A sudden flood of light burst through the windows, lit up the
gleaming gold backgrounds of the triptychs, and played over the
sorrowfully patient brow of the Siennese Madonna and the glittering
steel scales on the Princess di Ferentino's little grey hat.

'When is the goblet coming on?' asked the princess impatiently.

Her friends consulted the catalogue. There was no hope of the goblet for
that day. The unusual amount of competition made the sale go slowly.
There was still a long list of smaller articles--cameos, medallions,
coins. Several antiquaries and Prince Stroganow disputed each piece
hotly. The rest felt considerably disappointed. The Duchess of Scerni
rose to go.

'Good-bye, Sperelli,' she said. 'I shall see you again this
evening--perhaps.'

'Why perhaps?'

'I do not feel well.'

'What is the matter?'

She turned away without replying, and took leave of the others. Many of
them followed her example and left with her. The young men were making
fun of the 'spectacle manque.'