as afraid of the word that might greet him. Still--every
window visible from below had been ablaze. Surely it could not have
happened--yet.

He knocked, quietly, at last; and, after a little wait, was admitted to
the antechamber by a person who was strange to him. This was a young
girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, her head crowned by a coronal of
heavy braids; her eyes, of a deep, purplish tint, rimmed with jet-black
lashes, exact replicas of the Princess' own. Meeting those eyes, Ivan
gave a sudden, comprehensive start. Then he said, a little confusedly:

"My name is Gregoriev. I understand that the Princess Nikitenko sent for
me some hours ago. I received the message only within the last
half-hour. Can you tell me if she is easier?"

The girl shook her head, slowly. She was very quiet, but seemed dazed.
"No. It is impossible that my mother can live. I came at six o'clock.
She saw me, and knew me, then. The priest is with her now; and the
Signor Dottore is waiting, in the _sala_. Please to come in, Eccellenze.
If she should be able, after receiving absolution and the unction,
she--she may see you, monsignor.--Ecco!"

Speaking in a low, wonderfully rich voice, Vittoria Lodi led the way
into the familiar little _salon_, where a young man, known to most of
the foreign colony in Florence, sat reading a medical paper. At Ivan's
entrance the Englishman rose, and the two talked in whispers, the doctor
giving Ivan a resume of this last seizure: the fearful hemorrhage which
had continued for half an hour, and had started up again at intervals
throughout the day; and the marvellous vitality which had upheld her,
even though her body was nearly bloodless, and her two lungs almost
solidly filled.

As he finished speaking, Dr. Tremont looked at his watch. "A quarter to
two.--She may possibly hold out till daylight. But from now on the
vitality ebbs, and it is more than likely that she will go, quietly, at
any moment.--I trust you can see her, Prince. But I hardly dare
interrupt the priest, who came to her at her special request."

"Certainly not. My great regret is that, not dreaming the attack was
serious, I left town for the day.--I shall never forgive myself."

A few words more of reassurance and sorrow, and then the two men seated
themselves, the doctor returning to his paper, while Ivan sank into an
arm-chair, and stared at the fire that burned in the tiny grate.
Vittoria, thoroughly Italian in her habits, had withd