hat
gleam in her mother's eyes, which she invariably put on when she was
launching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction.
Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she were
not a real person.

But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all the
allusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, as
they recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heard
nothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it in
the least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling that
something was left behind which had not been told her?

Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a moment
after, she sprang to a sitting posture.

Yes, there was something behind!

What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham and
Licorice their lives? What had she heard which explained those
mysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story?
Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that one
point which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know,--which
Licorice expressed such anxiety that she should not even guess?

There was not much sleep for Belasez that night.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1. The confession of the Countess is historical. She took the
whole blame upon herself.

CHAPTER TEN.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

"Guardami ben'! Ben' son', ben' son' Beatrice."

_Dante_.

"Well, now, this is provoking!"

"What is the matter, wife?" And Abraham looked up from a bale of silk
which he was packing.

"Why, here has Genta been and taken the fever; and there is not a soul
but me to go and nurse her."

"There is Esterote, her brother's wife."

"There isn't! Esterote has her baby to look to. Dost thou expect her
to carry infection to him?"

"What is to be done?" demanded Abraham, blankly. "Could not Pucella be
had, or old Cuntessa?"

"Old Cuntessa is engaged as nurse for Rosia the wife of Bonamy the rich
usurer, and Pucella would be no good,--she's as frightened of the fever
as a chicken, and she has never had it."

"Well, thou hast had it."

"I? Oh, I'm not frightened a bit--not of that. I am tremendously
afraid of thee."

"Of me? I shall not hinder thee, Licorice. I do not think it likely
thou wouldst take it."

"_Ay de mi_, canst thou not understand? I might as well l