Part 35 (1/2)

A woman's cry of agony rang out upon the sweet morning stillness. Count Marioni, who had been hurrying on with downcast head, stood still in the cliff path and lifted his head. It was the woman whose memory he had cursed who stood before him--the woman on whom his vengeance was to fall.

Her face was as white as his own, and in the swiftness of her flight her hat had fallen away and her hair was streaming in the breeze. Yet in that moment of her awful fear she recognized him, and shrank back trembling, as though some unseen hand had palsied her tongue, and laid a cold weight upon her heart They stood face to face, breathless and speechless. A host of forgotten sensations, kindled by her appearance, had leaped up within the Sicilian's heart. He had indeed loved this woman.

”Merciful G.o.d! to meet you here,” she faltered. ”You will help me? Oh, you will help me? My husband is being murdered there on the cliff by an escaped lunatic. Oh! Leonardo, save him, and you may strike me dead at your feet. It is I whom you should hate, not him. Oh, come! Come, or it will be too late!”

He stood quite still, looking at her curiously.

”And it is I to whom you dare to come for help--I whom you ask to save him--your husband? Adrienne, do you remember my words on the sands at Palermo?”

She wrung her hands, frantically imploring.

”How can I remember anything--think of anything, now? For the love of G.o.d, help him,” she begged, seizing his hand. ”That was all so long ago.

You would not have him killed here before my eyes? Come! Oh, do come!”

”Lead the way,” he answered sternly. ”Call your loudest for other help.

I make no promise, but I will see this tragedy.”

She ran back along the path, and he followed her. They turned suddenly an abrupt corner, and came upon two men locked in one another's arms, and swaying backward and forward upon the short green turf. The lunatic, an immense fellow, more than six feet high, was clutching his opponent's throat with his left hand, while with his right he brandished a long table-knife with keenly-sharpened edge. The struggle was virtually over.

The madman's strength was more than human, and desperately though he had struggled, Lord St. Maurice was lying exhausted and overcome in his arms.

With a final effort he turned his head at the sound of footsteps, and saw them come--his wife and this shrunken little old man. But close at hand though they were, nothing could help him now. He saw the steel flas.h.i.+ng in the sunlight, and he closed his eyes.

The knife descended, but Lord St. Maurice remained unhurt. With a swiftness which seemed almost incredible, the Sicilian had sprung between them, and the knife was quivering in his side. Behind, the lunatic was struggling helplessly in the grasp of three keepers.

There was a wild cry of horror from Lady St. Maurice, a choking gasp of relief from her husband, and a horrid chuckle of triumph from the madman as he gazed upon his handiwork. But after that there was silence--a deep, awe-stricken silence--the silence of those who stand in the presence of death.

Count Marioni lay on the turf where he had sunk, very white and very still, with the blood dropping slowly from his wound upon the gra.s.s, and his eyes closed. At first they thought that he was already dead; but, as though aroused by Lady St. Maurice's broken sobs, he opened his eyes and looked up. His lips moved, and she stooped low down to catch the sound.

”Will you tell Margharita that this was best?” he faltered. ”I have heard a whisper from over the sea, and--and the White Hyacinth forgives.

I forgive. She will understand.”

”Leonardo,” she sobbed, ”your vengeance----”

He interrupted her.

”This is my vengeance!” he said. ”I have kept my oath!”

Then he closed his eyes, and a gray shade stole into his pallid face. A breeze sprung up from the sea, and the tall, blood-red poppies, which stood up all around him like a regiment of soldiers, bent their quivering heads till one or two of them actually touched his cheek. He did not move; he was dead.

Lord and Lady Lumley had lingered long in Rome, and now, on the eve of their departure, they had spent nearly the whole of a bright November afternoon buying curios of a wizened old dealer, whose shop they had found in one of the dark narrow streets at the back of the Piazza Angelo. Lady Lumley had taken up a curious old ring, and was examining it with a vague sense of familiarity.

”Ten pounds for that ring, my lady,” the curio dealer remarked, ”and it has a history. You will see that it bears the arms and motto of the Marionis, once the most powerful family in Sicily. I had it from the late Count himself.”

Lady Lumley sank into the little chair by the counter, holding the ring tightly in her hand.

”Will you tell us the history?” she asked in a low tone.

The man hesitated.