Venetian Masque

He turned Marc-Antoine gently over where he lay, disclosing a pool of blood. As she realized the nature of that dark patch gleaming in the light of the lantern, a long-drawn cry of horror escaped her.

Jacob's face was close to Marc-Antoine's; his hand felt for the heart, his eyes scanned the lips.

In a hushed voice she asked him presently: 'Is he . . . Is he . . .?' she dared not complete the question.

'He is not dead, citoyenne,' said the grave young man.

There was no sound from her in answer. Her whimpering ceased, but it was as if she dared express no thankfulness for something that might yet hold no grounds for it.

Jacob stood up, and gave his orders quietly.

They spread Marc-Antoine's cloak, and placed him upon it. Then Coupri and his son, Philibert and Renzo took each a corner. Thus they bore the wounded man gently up the alley, across the Corte del Cavallo, and so back to the embassy, the Vicomtesse following with dragging feet, supported by Jacob.

When they had laid Marc-Antoine in the porter's lodge, Renzo and his gondolier departed, enjoined by Jacob not to talk of what had happened. The young Jew kept his wits about him and remembered that silence is the best provision for all circumstances.

Renzo, however, did not account his mistress included in that injunction. Introduced to her by her maid, he delivered Marc-Antoine's note, and, when she had read it, he told her what had happened. She stood tense and straight before him, making no outcry, but her eyes were like dark, shining pools in her marble face. Before the tragedy of that countenance, Renzo made haste to assert not only that Messer Melville lived, but that no doubt he would recover.

Swaying a little, she steadied herself against a table, and so remained until a besetting sense of faintness passed. Then she commanded herself. They were a rough-fibred race these Pizzamani, and Isotta, for all her delicate fashioning, had inherited her portion of that toughness. Dry-eyed and in a voice of startling calm she questioned Renzo, but could draw from him no clue to the identity of Marc-Antoine's assailants. It had been so dark in that accursed alley.

High though her courage might be, it was not equal to the suspense that must lie in inaction. On a resolve that overrode every possible restraining consideration, she bade her maid bring her a cloak and hood. Without recking that she might be sought and missed by her mother, who had not yet retired, she slipped from the house, with Renzo for escort. They went by the garden, so that the porter should not see her leave. The garden-gate, which they left unbolted, opened upon a diminutive square. Beyond this, by a bridge over a little watercourse, they came to an open space bordering the wide Canal of Saint George. Thence in a hired gondola they made their way to the Madonna dell' Orto.

To Lallemant, whom this visit profoundly surprised, she was admitted without a moment's hesitation. In the salon that was his work-room, he advanced to meet her, his air deferential.

He was not alone. By the writing-table, in the background, two men remained standing with whom he had been in talk when she was admitted.

One of these was Villetard, whose tired eyes quickened a little to observe the grace and beauty of this woman; the other was a stocky, middle-aged man in formally cut clothes of black, with a face that was at once strong and kindly.

'Monsieur Melville?' she faltered to Lallemant. Then she steadied herself, and became coherent. 'I have just heard what has happened to him. He is a friend of ours. A great friend . . .'

'I am aware of it, mademoiselle.' Kindly, he sought to spare her explanations. 'I have this very moment learnt how great is your friendship for him.' He stepped to the table and took thence a scrap of paper. 'Doctor Delacoste here has just brought me this. It came from you, I think.'

He held out to her the note she had that evening written to Marc-Antoine. Realizing the nature of the red-brown stain that blurred it, she momentarily closed her eyes.

'Unfortunately,' said Lallemant, with a sigh, 'he did not sufficiently heed the warning.'

'How . . . How is it with him?' she asked, and waited in terror for the reply.

The ambassador turned. 'Will you tell her, doctor?'

The stocky man came slowly forward, speaking as he approached her.

'His condition is grave, but gives no cause to despair. No cause to despair at all. Almost he makes me believe in miracles. The sword must have been guided through him by his guardian angel. His worst danger is from his terrible loss of blood. But I trust he has not lost more than he can renew.'

Her eyes searched that grave, kindly face, and some of the lifelessness passed from her countenance.

Then Lallemant was speaking. 'We shall take good care of him, and we shall keep him here where he will be safe from any further attempts upon him.'

'Who did this? Is it known?' she asked.