When Leonora met her husband at dinner an hour later, her face was set, for her mind was made up, and every moment hardened her determination.

Julius had said to her "come," and she would go to the very end of the world if need be. He had stated the case with a show of fairness. She must fully understand the step, he said, and that there was no return possible from such an exile as they undertook together. She must abandon everything, and not only her husband, but her mother, her father, her position before the world, her whole luxurious, aristocratic existence. She must rely on his arm alone to support her, and on his love to be her only comfort and compensation. They must live an isolated life, whether wandering, or resting in some quiet place where society never came. She must also take the chance of his being killed by Marcantonio, who would certainly make an effort to destroy him, and the chance was not small, considering the provocation. If it happened that he fell, she would certainly be left alone in the world. This was probably the strongest argument with her against flight, but it had not weight enough to hold her back, for she had the pride of a woman who had found a man ready to fight for her, in these latter days when fighting is so terribly out of fashion; and she felt in her heart that she should always be able to prevent an encounter.

The resolution she had made had killed any doubt that might still have remained as to the ultimate result of her love for Julius. Henceforth it was her duty to kill doubts in order to be happy; and, indeed, there were few left, for her love was very sincere and real. But if any should arise she meant to smother them instantly. And now she remembered every word her lover had spoken in that brief stolen interview, and she felt no fear. Her face was set, and she looked defiantly at her husband. A few hours more, she thought, and she should be free from him, from the world, from everything—forever.

They would have gone at once, that very minute, but Batiscombe pointed out that the time was ill chosen. She had been seen to come to the hotel,—the servant who had shown her up-stairs had noticed her, perhaps recognised her; in half an hour after the dinner hour she would be missed at the villa, and they would surely be overtaken on land, especially as there was no train at that time. Julius said his boat was moored at the foot of the cliff below the hotel, but it would be impossible to reach it without being observed by many people, some of whom might recognise her. There was also no wind, the sea was oily with a deadly calm, and the full moon, just rising, would make pursuit easy, for though his boat could beat anything on the coast under canvas, she was over heavy in the water for his six men to row at any speed.

But at midnight, when the easterly breeze was blowing from the land, he would be down at the landing of her villa, ready. Marcantonio was always asleep at that hour, for he rose betimes in the morning and went to bed early. The dogs? Julius had thought of that, and sending his sailor servant to the kitchen of the hotel, he obtained in a few minutes a couple of solid lumps of meat, which he caused to be wrapped in paper and then tied up in a silk handkerchief for her to carry. She might find it hard, he said, to get anything of the kind in her own house. She was fond of animals, and was sure she could manage to quiet the terriers in a moment if she had something to give them. Besides, they knew her, and would only bark a very little at first. The moon was full, to be sure, but that could not be helped. Once on the water, nothing short of steam could catch them, and that was not available at such short notice. She should not hamper her flight with unnecessary things, he said, for if any one were roused she might have to run for her life as far as the beginning of the descent where he would be in waiting for her. These and a hundred other little directions he had given her, with the quiet forethought for details that was part of his remarkable intellect.

And now she sat opposite her husband at their small dinner-table, looking hard and determined, but listening with more than usual complacency to his talk, and striving to eat something, as Julius had instructed her. She made such a good pretence that Marcantonio noticed it approvingly.

"I am glad to see, my angel," he said, "that you are finding your appetite again. It is most encouraging."

It was just like his want of tact, thought Leonora. It was just like him to suppose that she would eat the more because he wanted her to do so, and watched her! Dieu! What a nuisance to be always watched. It would soon be over now, however, and she could afford to be indifferent.

"Oddly enough," said she, "I am hungry—I do not know why."

"Does any one know why they are hungry?" said Marcantonio, with a little laugh. "It happens to me to take much exercise. I rise with the sun, I walk, I ride, I dispatch my correspondence, I work like a dog—et puis, at breakfast I eat nothing. No appetite. Good! Another day, I lie in bed till ten o'clock, rise with a cigarette, read a novel, and—voyez donc, how droll—I eat, perhaps, for four people. But I have often observed that, if I eat a mayonnaise at dinner, I have no appetite the next day at breakfast. It is extremely singular, for the cook makes the mayonnaise of great delicacy."

What could it possibly matter whether Marcantonio were hungry or not, or what he ate for dinner? But Leonora was glad to have him say anything, so that she might be spared the effort of talking.

"It is true," she said, absently, "his mayonnaise is not bad."

She hoped he would go on; it was an easy, neutral subject—of many ingredients, concerning each of which it would be possible to differ and to raise a fresh discussion.

"Apropos," said Marcantonio, "the gardener's boy cut his finger very badly this afternoon"—

"Apropos of mayonnaise?" Leonora could not help asking the question. His conversation was so absurd.

"Ma foi! mayonnaise—vegetables—gardens—gardeners and the gardener's boy—all that holds together. As I was saying, he cut his finger, and I sent your maid to get something to bind it with."

"I hope she did not take one of my lace handkerchiefs," remarked Leonora. "It would be just like her."

"It was not lace, I am sure," said Marcantonio, with an air of conviction, as he helped himself to the salad which Temistocle handed him. "But it looked very new. I hope she made no mistake."

The comic side of the situation suddenly forced itself on Leonora, as it often will happen with people on the eve of great danger. A lackey in Paris once danced a jig on the scaffold before he was broken on the wheel. Leonora laughed aloud.

"Would it amuse you, for instance," inquired Marcantonio with a puzzled look, "to have a good handkerchief destroyed to tie up the boy's finger?"

It seemed so funny to Leonora to think that on the morrow her entire stock of handkerchiefs would be at the disposal of all the gardeners in Sorrento if they chanced to cut their fingers.

"No—not that," she said. "It is so odd that you should take so much trouble about it—or care."

"Poor people," said Marcantonio, "one must do what one can for them."

And so their last conversation tottered to its end in a round of domestic triviality, so that Leonora wondered how she could have borne it so long. But, in truth, Marcantonio was so much afraid of rousing her opposition that evening, after the scene that had taken place, that he purposely avoided every intelligent subject, and did violence to his own preference for the sake of keeping the peace. He liked to talk politics, he liked to talk of Rome, of society, of a hundred things, but of late he had found it very hard to talk peaceably about anything.

After dinner Marcantonio smoked, and Leonora sat beside him, with a little worsted work which she did with a huge ivory needle. Her heart beat fast as the hour approached when she must part from her husband. She glanced at him from time to time, sitting there so unsuspecting of any surprise, with his cigarette and his "Fanfulla," the witty Roman paper that amused him so much. His delicate, dark features, a little weak perhaps, looked handsome enough in the lamplight, and Leonora thought for a moment that she had never seen him look so well. She was already so far from him in her thoughts that she regarded him as from a distance, with a certain abstracted consideration of his merits that was new to her. Poor Marcantonio! A certain curiosity, which would have been pity if she had allowed it, came over her. She wondered how he would look when she was gone. Ten o'clock—two hours to midnight, and he never saw her before nine in the morning now. Nine and two were eleven. In eleven hours he must know—unless something happened. Would he rage and storm, like a wild beast? Or would he break down and shed tears? Neither, she thought. He did not love her—he was only jealous. Heavens! thought she, if Julius had been in his position, and he in Julius's, could things have ever got to this pass without some fearful outbreak? Ah no! Julius was so hot-tempered and strong. Her thoughts went away with her, and she heaved a quick short breath, suddenly interrupted in the recollection of where she was. Marcantonio looked round.

"What is it, my dear?" he asked.

"Nothing—I was going to sneeze," said Leonora with a ready excuse.

"There is too much air," said he, rising and going toward the window.

He looked out for a moment. The first breath of the easterly wind was coming over the mountains and just stirring a ripple on the moonlit bay. It had rained early in the afternoon, and they had sat indoors on account of the dampness. Marcantonio sniffed the breeze, said it was damp, and closed the window.

"It must be late," said he. "En vÉritÉ, it is twenty minutes to eleven! I should not have thought it."

Leonora's heart beat fast.

"I suppose it is time to go to bed," she said, with enough indifference to escape notice.

Marcantonio had not enjoyed the evening much, and was sleepy. Leonora moved slowly about the room, touching a book here and a photograph there as though to make the room comfortable for the night. Some women always do it. Her blood was throbbing wildly—the last strong effort of conscience was upon her. A great pity sprang up in her—a terrible regret—a horror of great evil. Her resolutions, her love, her determination to fly, her better self, all struggled and reeled furiously together. She felt an irresistible impulse to throw herself at her husband's feet, to confess everything, to implore his protection, and forgiveness, and help. She turned towards him suddenly. He was in the act of ringing the bell.

The sharp tinkle, sounding from far away through the open doors of the house, checked her when she was on the very point of speaking. Almost instantly, the quick tread of the servant was heard. He came, and the supreme moment was over. The reality of her situation returned, and with it the hardness it needed. The man had the candles ready in his hands, and stood waiting to accompany Leonora to her door.

"Good-night, Marcantoine," said she, holding out her hand.

It was cold and clammy with intense excitement, and her face was pale to the lips.

"Good-night, my angel," said he, touching his lips to her fingers, and she passed from him. Just beyond the door she turned and looked back, with a touch of sadness.

"Good-night," she said once more, faintly—for the last, the very last time.

When Marcantonio was alone, he took his newspapers, and one or two letters which had come by the late post, he looked carefully round the room, to see that he had forgotten nothing, as he had a bad habit of doing, and he marched gloomily off to his room, which was beyond Leonora's, and separated from hers by her sitting-room. Her dressing-room was on the other side of her bedroom, and had a separate door, opening upon the head of the stairs.

As soon as Leonora had dismissed her maid for the night, she began to make her preparations. She had a large silk bag, of many colours, made like an old-fashioned purse, with heavy silver rings. She used it for carrying her work, her books, or anything she needed when she went into the garden to spend the morning. It seemed the best thing to take with her now, for it would hold a good deal and was convenient. She filled it with handkerchiefs, bottles of eau-de-cologne, and hairpins, and she put in a tiny looking-glass in a silver case, which she had used all her life. It was of no use to think of taking anything else, she thought, since she must carry it all in her hand. Then she went over her jewels and took her own, carefully setting aside all that her husband had given her. She tied them up in a handkerchief with two hard knots,—the best she knew how to make,—and she put them into the bag with the rest of the things. Then she found her purse, and put into it all the money she had, for it was her own, and she thought she might as well have it,—and there was her cheque-book in the drawer of the writing-table. Of course she could draw her own money just as well when—she did not finish the sentence to herself.

Presently she went into the sitting-room, and listened at the small side door which opened into Marcantonio's bedroom. She had taken an hour over her preparations; it was half past eleven, and he was asleep,—she heard his regular breathing distinctly. The full moon shone outside upon the gravel walks, and the orange-trees, and the soft wind was blowing steadily through the open windows. She paused one moment before she went back, and she looked out at the scene, so sweet and peaceful in the ivory moonlight. Far off in the town the clocks struck the half hour. Julius must be already on the water, perhaps near the landing. She hastened to her room, treading on tiptoe; her maid had left her in her loose white peignoir; she must dress again, and dress quickly, or she would be late.

It did not take long,—though she put the candle before her glass, and dallied a little with a ribbon and a pin. The dress was soft and dark, fitting closely to her figure. In reality she had selected it because it had a pocket,—that would be such a convenient thing on a journey. A hat—yes, she must have a hat, for of course they must land somewhere, though a veil would be more convenient in the wind.

There was a great vase of carnations, gathered that day, that stood on a little table by the window. At the last minute, Leonora stopped and took one. She went back to the glass with the candle in her hand, and pinned the flower in her dress, eying the effect critically. They were the flowers he loved best,—it was an afterthought, and would please him. She was ready, the bag hung over her arm, the package of meat for the dogs in one hand, and a candle in the other. She blew out the remaining lights as the clocks struck midnight, put the one she carried upon a chair by the door, while she softly turned the latch, looked out cautiously, and left the room. Once out of the passage and on the stairs, she had no fear of being heard, and she descended rapidly. One moment more and she was in the open air. The front door closed behind her. Something touched her feet, and, looking down, she saw that the white kitten had followed her out; she had not noticed it, poor thing, and she could not risk opening the door again to put it back.

She glanced out into the moonlight from beneath the porch, and she was frightened. It was only a step—a minute's run, if she ran fast, to the beginning of the passage—but she hesitated and hung back. Oh, if the last step were not so hard! If Julius had only met her at the door instead of being down there—but he was even now at the head of the steps. She realised his presence, and the garden was no longer a solitude—she was not alone any more. The kitten mewed discontentedly. She bethought herself of the dogs, picked up the little beast, and moved quickly down the walk, running faster as she neared the end.

Her running on the path roused the terriers, prowling about among the shrubbery in the warm night, and they sprang upon her not ten yards from the mouth of the descent, barking furiously and snapping at her dress. She dropped the parcel of meat instantly, but they did not see it at once, and pursued her. In one moment more she was lifted from the ground and held firmly in the mighty grasp of the strong man who stood ready, and had run forward to meet her when the dogs sprang out. But, in the quick act, the kitten fell to the ground almost between the enraged terriers.

It was over in a minute. One frantic, piteous death-scream and the poor little white cat lay dead on the gravel path, and the terriers sniffed her little body disdainfully, as though congratulating each other on their brave deed.

"Oh, Julius, they have killed my kitten!" cried Leonora in real distress. They were already under the archway, and Batiscombe was urging her to descend, but she clung to him, and stared back into the moonlight at the dogs and her dead pet.

Julius himself was enraged at the thing—it was so wantonly cruel.

"Run on," said he, in a whisper; "I will settle them." He had reflected quickly that they had only barked for a moment, and that any one who heard them must have heard the cat also and would have taken no notice of the noise.

At that very moment Marcantonio turned on his pillow, and, half waking, swore to himself, as he had done every night of his life for weeks, that he would send the dogs away in the morning. But all was still, and he fell asleep again instantly.

Julius went back upon the path, and the terriers growled, still scenting their vanquished prey. But he moved quickly and softly, speaking gently to them in a low voice, and holding out his hand to them. He had a sort of influence over animals, and they let him come close, pricking their ears and sniffing about his legs. Suddenly, as they smelled at his boots, he caught them by their necks in an iron grip, one in each hand, and held them up at arm's length, struggling frantically, but utterly incapable of making a sound.

"You killed her cat, did you, you brutes?" he muttered, savagely. "I will kill you."

He broke their necks, one after the other, and threw their quivering bodies far out under the orange-trees.

Leonora had watched him from the archway. She shuddered.

"They will not bark any more," said Julius, as he came to her.

"What strong hands you have!" she said.

A window opened, up in the house, a hundred yards away. Batiscombe's quick ear caught the sound.

"Come, sweetheart," he whispered; "some one is stirring."

His arm was round her as he guided her down the first steps, tenderly and strongly. She stumbled a little.

"Oh, Julius, I am so frightened!" she said piteously.

He stopped and took her off the ground as though she had been a child, and bore her swiftly and surely through the dark way. She could see his fiery blue eyes in the gloom, and in the flashes of white light as they passed the windows and arches where the moon streamed in, and as she looked she could feel her own grow big and dark; and she was frightened and very happy. But she thought of that strange thing she had dreamed—this very flight of hers exactly as it was to happen, so that she hid her face against his coat and clung to him nervously.

"Put me down," she cried earnestly, as they emerged upon the flat rock of the landing, "put me down, Julius,—I dreamed you fell here."

He obeyed her, and set her on her feet, still supporting her with his arm about her waist. One passionate kiss—only one—and then they came out from the shadow of the high cliff, and saw the boat riding lightly in the moonlight, two sailors holding her off the rocks, and the rest busy on board with the sails. The water plashed musically in the little hollows, and from near by there came a deep, mysterious murmur out of the many dark caves that lined the shore.

Leonora stepped lightly in, and Julius arranged the cushions about her carefully. Neither of them spoke. With a few strong strokes of the oars the boat shot out into the breeze from the lee of the gorge. The foresail was already set, and jib and mainsail went up in a moment, wing and wing, the tapering, lateen-yards pointing to right and left, like the horns of a great, soft, white moth; the water rippled at the stern, and curled up and lapped the rudder as the sails filled, and ever swiftly and more swiftly the craft rushed down the bay in the glorious moonlight, before the steady east wind.

Julius held the tiller with one hand, and the other lovingly supported Leonora's head against his breast, as she lay along the cushions in the stern.

"Darling," he said presently, "what was the dream about my falling at the landing? You never told me."

She did not answer, but lay quite still.

"Dear one," he murmured, bending down, "are you so tired? Leonora—sweetheart—speak to me!"

But the strain had been too strong, and Leonora lay in his arms, whiter than death under the white moon, unconscious of Julius or of the sea. Julius saw that she had fainted.