straining. He was not so fresh as he would have been if he had passed
the night in sleep.

Yet the next bridge--the last bridge--was passed. He was conscious of
it; but in the tumult of his blood, he could only feel vaguely that he
was safe and might land. But where? The current was having its way
with him: he hardly knew where he was: exhaustion was bringing on the
dreamy state that precedes unconsciousness.

But now there were eyes that discerned him--aged eyes, strong for the
distance. Baldassarre, looking up blankly from the search in the runlet
that brought him nothing, had seen a white object coming along the
broader stream. Could that be any fortunate chance for _him_? He
looked and looked till the object gathered form: then he leaned forward
with a start as he sat among the rank green stems, and his eyes seemed
to be filled with a new light. Yet he only watched--motionless.
Something was being brought to him.

The next instant a man's body was cast violently on the grass two yards
from him, and he started forward like a panther, clutching the velvet
tunic as he fell forward on the body and flashed a look in the man's
face.

Dead--was he dead? The eyes were rigid. But no, it could not be--
Justice had brought him. Men looked dead sometimes, and yet the life
came back into them. Baldassarre did not feel feeble in that moment.
He knew just what he could do. He got his large fingers within the neck
of the tunic and held them there, kneeling on one knee beside the body
and watching the face. There was a fierce hope in his heart, but it was
mixed with trembling. In his eyes there was only fierceness: all the
slow-burning remnant of life within him seemed to have leaped into
flame.

Rigid--rigid still. Those eyes with the half-fallen lids were locked
against vengeance. _Could_ it be that he was dead? There was nothing
to measure the time: it seemed long enough for hope to freeze into
despair.

Surely at last the eyelids were quivering: the eyes were no longer
rigid, There was a vibrating light in them: they opened wide.

"Ah, yes! You see me--you know me!"

Tito knew him; but he did not know whether it was life or death that had
brought him into the presence of his injured father. It might be
death--and death might mean this chill gloom with the face of the
hideous past hanging over him for ever.

But now Baldassarre's only dread was, lest the young limbs should escape
him. He pressed h