When Marcantonio met Diana in the morning, she noticed at once the change in his appearance. He was still very pale, and his face was drawn in a peculiar expression; but he did not look so wild, and his eyes had regained their clearness.

Diana greeted him affectionately, but made no remark about his health, thinking it would annoy him. She herself had slept soundly and began the day with a new supply of strength.

"You are still determined to go to Turin?" she said, with half a question in her voice, but as though it were quite certain that he would answer in the affirmative.

"Yes," he said, "I am quite determined. It is the best thing I can do."

"I was wondering this morning," said Diana, "whether we ought not to let our uncle know. It seems to me that he ought not to hear it from strangers."

Marcantonio eyed her suspiciously.

"You cannot expect me to go and tell him now," said he. "The train leaves in an hour—there is not time."

"Of course not," said Diana, seeing how quickly he suspected her of wishing to interfere with his plan. "But, if you like, I will write and tell him."

"We can write from Turin," said he moodily. "No one knows yet."

He hurried her to the station, and got there long before the hour of departure. He was determined not to miss the train, and until he was seated in the carriage and the train rolled out of the city he could not feel sure that Diana would not stop him. He was somewhat relieved when they passed the first station on the way to Florence, and he saw that he was fairly off. Donna Diana sat opposite to him and watched him, thinking sadly of the last journey they had made together, when he had taken her to Sorrento by the night train. He looked quiet, though, and she thanked Heaven things were no worse; he might so easily have done himself a mischief in the first outbreak of his solitary grief.

She still hoped for a chance of learning how it had all happened, for she was very much in the dark, and had no means of learning anything except what he might choose to tell her. Perhaps the intense inquiry in her mind reacted on his, as often happens between brothers and sisters. At all events, he began to speak before half an hour had gone by.

"I have not told you anything about it yet, Diana mia," he said. "I have been so busy, so many things to do." He passed his hand over his forehead as he spoke, as though trying to collect himself.

"Of course," said Diana gently. "Do not tire yourself now, dear boy. Another time will do just as well. I know all that is absolutely necessary."

Marcantonio laughed very slightly and a little foolishly, and again put his hand to his head.

"Oh, no," he answered, "I shall not tire myself. You do not know anything about the—the—occurrence."

"No," said she, "that is true."

"They went away at night," said Marcantonio quickly, and then stopped.

"Pray do not tell me about it, dear brother," said Diana, rising and seating herself near to him on the opposite side of the carriage. She laid her hand on his arm, trying to soothe him, for she feared a return of his old state.

"But I must tell you," he said impatiently, and she saw it was useless to protest. "They went away at night," he continued, "in a boat. I heard the dogs barking, just for a moment, and then they stopped, and I went to sleep. I went to sleep, Diana," he cried savagely, "when she was running away with him, and I could have killed him as easily as possible. I could have killed them both—oh, so easily!" He groaned aloud and clenched his thin hands.

"Hush!" said Diana, softly.

"I could have killed them as easily as he killed the dogs and stopped their barking," he went on; "he killed them both, wrung their necks—poverini—as though they were not right to call me. And I never guessed anything, though I heard them!"

He was working himself into a frenzy, and Diana was afraid he might go mad then and there. She tried to draw his mind to another part of the story. She was a woman of infinite tact and resource.

"Yes," said she, "I am sure you could. But how long was it before you telegraphed to me?"

"How long? I do not know," he said; and he seemed trying to recollect himself.

"Was it in the afternoon?" asked Diana, glad to fix his attention on a detail.

"Let me see—yes. I meant to send it from Castellamare—the dispatch, I mean; and instead I stopped the carriage at a little town on the way—I forget the name, but there was a telegraph office there—and so I sent it sooner."

"Yes," said Diana. "I got it at about seven o'clock. My husband was very quick and got a carriage, and brought me as far as Genoa."

"How good of him!" exclaimed Marcantonio. "How is he? And the children, dear little things; are they all well?"

His face changed again, and a pleasant smile showed that he had forgotten his troubles for a moment. Diana was surprised at the ease with which she could distract his attention, and she determined to make use of her power to the utmost. It would be something gained if she could keep him quiet during the journey. She began immediately to speak of her children, a boy and girl of four and three years old. She told him about their games, their appearance, their nursery maids, and their French governess. She branched off into a dissertation on the beauties of the Riviera, and still he listened and made intelligent answers, and talked as though nothing had happened to him and they were travelling for their amusement. Seeing that she was accomplishing her object, she went on from one subject to another, telling him all manner of details about her life in France, in Austria, and other places where her husband's official duties had called him, during the five years since her marriage. Only about Rome she would not speak, fearing lest the smallest reference to the scenes he had recently passed through might take his mind back to his great grief.

And all the while she marvelled at his calmness, and at the ease with which she could amuse him. For he was really amused, there could be no doubt. He laughed, talked in his natural way, and seemed enjoying himself very well, smoking a cigarette now and then, and commenting on the weather, which was abominably hot.

"Of course," said he, "we shall find it much cooler in Pegli."

Diana started quickly, and then looked away to hide her astonishment.

"Of course," she answered, "it is very much cooler there."

Did he really fancy he was going to Pegli? Had he forgotten Turin and his errand? Was he gone stark mad? She could not tell, and was frightened. It might have been a slip of the tongue,—but he said it very quietly, as though he were anticipating the delights of the climate. Nevertheless, she did not dare to pause, and she talked bravely on in the heat and the dust.

At one of the stations the train stopped ten minutes for refreshments. Marcantonio said he would get out and buy a sandwich and a bottle of wine. He sprang nimbly from the step, and Diana watched him as she sat by the open door of the carriage. He looked more like his old self than she had seen him since the catastrophe, and she watched him with loving eyes, wondering how he would bear what was to come, and for the first time wishing that he might be kept always in this state, without the necessity of a meeting with Batiscombe.

Presently he returned with the provisions,—a brace of rough-looking sandwiches, and a bottle of wine.

"It is the best I could do," he remarked. "It is the last place in the world."

He still looked cheerful and entirely himself. Diana watched him closely, hoping and praying with all her might that he might remain so—forever, even if he were out of his mind. Anything would be better than to see him suffer as he had been suffering that morning. She began to talk again, eating a little of the sandwich, for she was tired, and needed all her strength. He ate, too, and drank some of the wine, but he no longer listened as he had done before, and he did not answer nor make a remark of any kind. Diana had taken up what he said about the station, and was talking about travelling in France.

Suddenly Marcantonio's colour changed; he grew pale again, his eyes stared, and he dropped the bread he was eating. Diana was terrified, brave as she was, for she knew that his mind had gone back to his trouble,—how, she could not tell; but it was clear that for a space he had wholly forgotten it. He seemed to take up the thread of his terrible narration at the point at which he had been led away from it.

"Temistocle brought me the key," he said, and his voice sounded hollow again and far away. "He had told the servants she had gone to Rome before daybreak, and that I had gone with her,—ha! ha!—he is a cunning fellow. I gave him something for himself,—I think I did,—I am not quite certain." Again his ideas seemed to wander, and he tried to remember the detail that had escaped his grasp. Quick as thought Diana seized the opportunity.

"Did you give it to him in the evening?" she asked.

"I am not sure. I am not quite sure that I did give it to him after all. Oh, I cannot remember anything any more."

He clasped his hands to his head as though striving to compress his brain and to compel it to action. The train moved away from the station.

"You can send it to him, in any case," suggested Diana, in an agony of sympathy and suspense. She would have added "from Pegli," if she had dared; but she was not sure he would remember his stray remark, or whether he had meant it. In a moment it was too late.

"Of course," cried Marcantonio, delighted with the idea. "I can send it from Turin. He deserves it well. There will be time,"—he hesitated and spoke slowly,—"there will be time,—yes, there will be time, before I find him." His voice fell almost to a whisper, barely audible to Diana in the noise of the train as it gained speed in starting. He seemed unconscious of her at the moment when he said the last words, and she sat with clasped hands and set lips, not knowing what to expect next. In a little while he began again. She had been too much struck by his quick change of manner to find the thing to say, in time to lead him off.

"I went into her room," he said. He stopped and fumbled in his pockets, producing at last the cross of sapphires and diamonds. "I found this," he added, showing it to Diana. She would have taken it, but he held it nervously in his hand, more than half concealed. "Do you know it?"

"Yes," said she as quietly as she could. "It belonged to our mother."

"It is beautifully made," he said suddenly, looking closely at it. "It is most beautifully made, and the stones are very valuable. Should you not think that they are worth a great deal?"

"They must be—the sapphires are of a very good colour and the brilliants are large," said Diana, humouring him. "I wonder where it was made?"

"I do not care where it was made," said Marcantonio roughly. "I have got it again. I will give it back to her—she must have missed it." He looked at Diana with a strange pathetic inquiry in his weary eyes.

"Leonora?" asked Diana, in surprise. Marcantonio started as though he had been stung. He had thought of his dead mother.

"Leonora? Ah!" he cried with a sort of muffled scream. "It belonged to Leonora—Ugh!" With a quick movement he flung the jewel at the window. It chanced that the pane was raised to keep out the smoke on that side. The heavy cross cracked the plate glass and knocked a small piece out of the middle, but fell to the floor.

Marcantonio remained in the very act, as he had thrown it, for one instant. Then his head sank on his breast and his hands fell to his sides helplessly.

"Oh, Diana, Diana," he moaned piteously, "I am mad." Then he began to rock himself backward and forward as though in pain.

It was no time to break down in horror or grief, and Diana was not the woman to waste idle tears. The cross had fallen at her feet. She had instantly stooped and picked it up and hid it away, lest he should see it again. Then she heard him say that he was mad, and she made a desperate effort. She took him strongly in her arms, almost lifting him from the ground, and laid his head upon her breast and supported it, and took his hand. He was quite passive; she could do anything with him for the moment—he might have been a child.

Diana bent down as she held him in her arms and kissed him tenderly on the forehead and breathed soft words. It was a prayer.

Poor woman! what could she do? Driven to the last extremity of agony and horror, sitting by and seeing her brother going mad—raving mad—before her very eyes, unable to soothe his grief or to strengthen his soul by any words of her own, not knowing but that at any moment he might turn upon herself—poor woman, what could she do? She breathed into his ear an ancient Latin prayer. What a very foolish thing to do! She was only a woman, poor thing, and knew no better.

O woman, God-given helpmate of man, and noblest of God's gifts and of all created things—is there any man bold enough to say that he can make praises for you out of ink and paper that shall be worthy to rank as praise at all by the side of your good deeds? You, who bow your gentle heads to the burden, and think it sweet, out of the fulness of your own sweet sympathy—you, whose soft fingers have the strength to bind up broken limbs and rough, torn wounds—you, who feel for each living thing as you feel for your own bodily flesh, and more—you, who in love are more tender and faithful and long-suffering than we, and who, even erring, err for the sake of the over-great heart that God has given you—is it not enough that I say of you, "You are only women, and you know no better"? What greater, or higher, or nobler thing can I say of you, in all humbleness and truth, than that you are what you are, and that you know no better? What better things can any know, than to bear pain bravely, to heal the wounded, to feel for all, even for those who cannot feel for themselves, and to be tender and faithful and kind in love? And even, being given of Heaven and loved of it, that you should turn in time of need and trouble and say a prayer for strength and knowledge, even that is a part of you, and not the least divine part. So that when the man who cannot suffer what you can suffer, nor do the good that you can do, sneers and scoffs at your prayers and your religion, I could wring his cowardly neck to death. Even poor Leonora, praying philosophical prayers to a power in which she did not in the least believe, was not ridiculous. She was pathetic, mistaken, miserable, perhaps, but not ridiculous.

Perhaps Diana had done the best thing, out of pure despair. The long familiar words, spoken in her soothing voice, at the very moment when he was conscious that he was on the verge of insanity, chained his faculties and gradually brought him to a calmer state. Perhaps, also, the strong magnetic power of his sister acted more forcibly on him from the moment when he suddenly abandoned himself to her influence. Like many people who possess that strange gift, she was wholly unconscious of it, and she sometimes wondered why it was that those about her yielded so easily to her will. Be that as it may, Marcantonio lay quite still in her arms, and at last his eyelids drooped, his limbs relaxed, and he fell into a deep sleep. The hot hours wore on, and the train rolled by the towns and hamlets and castle-crested hills towards Florence, and still he slept, and Diana tenderly supported him, though her arm ached as though it must break, and her eyes were dimmed from time to time with the sight and consciousness of so much misery.

At length, as they entered the station, she waked him. He was quite calm again, and collected, but very sad, as she had seen him that morning.

"Have I slept like this so long?" he asked.

"Yes, dear boy," said Diana.

"Dear, dear Diana, how good you are," he exclaimed, and he kissed her hand gratefully. "We have an hour here, to dine, before the train starts."

"Will you go on at once?" she asked. She had vainly hoped that he might be induced to stay in Florence. But he had recovered himself enough to know perfectly well what he was doing.

"Yes—certainly," said he. "We shall arrive in the morning." She dared not object nor make a suggestion, not knowing how soon he might break out again, in some fresh burst of madness.

"Very well," she answered, as a station porter took their handbags and smaller properties, "let us dine at once."

She watched him and saw that he ate with a good appetite. She had heard that lunatics always eat well, and she would almost rather have seen him too sad to care for his food; nevertheless she thought it would do him good.

There is probably nothing more wearing, more racking to the nerves, than the care of an insane person. To be ever on the watch, expecting always an outbreak or a painful incoherence, to attempt to follow the sensible nonsense that madmen talk, always endeavouring to distract the attention from the forbidden subject, are efforts requiring the highest tact and the greatest coolness. Diana could accomplish much by sheer common sense and endurance, and more, perhaps, by the strong affection which had always existed between her brother and herself. But she felt instinctively that she was not equal to the task, even while she hoped that Marcantonio was not really mad.

She was mistaken, however, as any indifferent person would have seen in a moment. He was insane, and on the verge of becoming violent. Nothing but her wonderful courage and strong will had kept him within any bounds, and he might at any moment become wholly uncontrollable.

She would have stopped in Florence if it had been possible, but it seemed dangerous to thwart him at present, and she felt sure that in Turin she could get the help of some first-rate physician. So she submitted once more, and in an hour they were off again, in a reserved carriage, as before, flying northwards towards the mountains, where the road winds so wonderfully through a hundred tunnels, in its rapid ascent.

It was a very long night for Diana. In all her many journeys she had never felt fatigue such as this. Marcantonio would sleep for an hour, and then start up suddenly and begin to talk, sometimes asking questions and sometimes volunteering remarks that showed how his mind was wandering. Once or twice he showed signs of returning to the account of his doings after Leonora had left him, but Diana was able to check him in time, for he was growing tired and yielded more easily to her will than in the daytime.

At last they were safe in the hotel, and Marcantonio was in his room, intending to dress, he said, before going out. Diana was no sooner assured that she was free from the responsibility of watching him for a few minutes than she sent for the proprietor of the hotel, inquired for the address of the best physician in Turin, and dispatched a messenger with a very urgent request for his attendance.

The apartment she had taken with her brother consisted of a large sitting-room, with a bedroom on each side of it. Marcantonio's room had but that one door, which she could watch as she lay on the sofa, awaiting the arrival of the doctor.

When he came at last, breathless in his haste to put himself at the service of the great lady who sent for him, he talked very learnedly for half an hour, after listening to all Diana told him with grave attention. He could not see the patient of course, and the interview took place in a small antechamber, from which he could escape if Marcantonio were heard moving within. He was of opinion that it was not a case of insanity, but of temporary derangement of the faculties from the severe strain they had received. The sudden manifestations of violence were natural enough to an Italian,—if it had been the case of an Englishman, it would have been different, because, as the doctor said, half in earnest and half in jest, Inglesi were generally mad to begin with, and anything beyond that made them furious maniacs. He had a man, he said, long accustomed to dealing with lunatics. He would send him disguised as a servant, and he could be in constant attendance, thus relieving Diana of the care of watching the marchese. He himself would call every day and inquire, and would be ready at a moment's notice to remove him to a place of safety. In his present state, he said, to shut him up, and treat him as though he were insane, might very likely make a permanent madman of him.

The doctor retired, leaving Diana somewhat reassured. All that he had said seemed reasonable, and she would strictly follow his advice. Meanwhile, she went to her own room, feeling sure that she could hear Marcantonio's door open, if he finished dressing and came out. But Marcantonio rang his bell at the end of an hour, and sent word to his sister that he felt tired and had gone to bed, and would not rise till midday.

Poor fellow—she was pleased at the intelligence, but the fact was that his mind had strayed again; he had forgotten the object of his journey, and being worn out had gone to bed like a tired child. The new place, the strange room, and the necessity of unpacking his clothes himself had confused him, and driven everything else out of his head.

Before he awoke, the confidential man had arrived, arrayed in the ordinary dress of an hotel servant. He was a quiet individual, with strong hands and iron-grey hair, neat in his appearance, and a little hesitating in his speech; but his eyes were keen and searching, and he moved quickly. Diana was pleased with him, and understood that the doctor had given her good advice, and that Marcantonio would be safely watched. The man said he would serve them in their own sitting-room, and perform the offices of valet for Marcantonio, and be altogether in the position of a private servant, which, however, was not his profession, as he took care to add.

When at last Diana and Marcantonio met, each rested and refreshed, he looked the less weary of the two. Diana had suffered too much to be entirely herself, and for the first time in her life felt as though she had taxed her strength too severely. Moreover, the strain was not removed, but increased hourly. Her woman's instinct told her that, in spite of the doctor's opinion, her brother was actually out of his mind, perhaps past all recovery. His sudden cheerfulness was horrible to her, and made her shudder when she thought of the magnitude of what he was forgetting.

"Let us take a carriage and see Turin, Diana," he suggested gayly, as they finished their lunch and he lit a cigarette. "I have never been in Turin with you. There are some very pretty things to see."

"By all means," said she readily. "Let us go at once."

The confidential servant was dispatched for a carriage. The idea of seeing sights with his sister pleased Marcantonio, and he never relapsed into his sadder self during the afternoon. Diana did not know whether to be glad or sorry; his forgetfulness was terrible, but his memory was worse. She remembered the scene with the cross on the previous day, in the railway-carriage, and she thought that if insanity brought peace it was better to be insane.

They drove about and saw what was to be seen,—the great squares, the memorial statues, the armory, where the mail-clad wooden knights sit silently on their mail-clad wooden horses, and they drove out at last to Moncalieri, in the cool of the evening. The confidential servant sat on the box and directed the driver, pointing out to Diana and Marcantonio the various objects of interest, so that Carantoni suspected nothing. The man acted his part perfectly.

"How charming it is here!" exclaimed Marcantonio, admiring the trees, and the life, and the gay colours at Moncalieri. "Why did we not think of coming here before, my dear?" He spoke in French, which he rarely did with his sister, though he had always done so with his wife. Diana hardly noticed it at the moment,—she was obliged to answer something.

"It was hardly the right season for it before this, I suppose," said she. "But now we can stay as long as we please."

"Oh yes," said he, in his old way, "if it is agreeable to you, I ask nothing better. It is infinitely more pleasant than Sorrento. I never liked Sorrento, I cannot tell why. It never wholly agreed with you, mon ange—n'est-ce-pas?"

"I was always well there,—well enough, at least," answered Diana, puzzled at this new phase of his humour.

"Ah no, you were never well after Diana left us. She is so good, she makes every one well!" He spoke pleasantly and naturally.

It was horrible, and Diana started with a new realisation of his state. He no longer recognised persons,—he took her for Leonora!

But some new object attracted his attention, and he chattered on, almost to himself, almost childishly, but with a sweet smile on his pale, delicate face. Diana could scarcely restrain her tears,—she who had not wept for years until lately!

Poor Diana! Batiscombe and Leonora were sinfully, wholly, happy with each other,—Batiscombe selfishly so, perhaps, but none the less for that, and Leonora with a wild delight in her new life, that swallowed up the past and gilded the present. Even poor, crazy Marcantonio, chattering and making small French jokes about the people's dresses at Moncalieri, was happy for the moment. Only Diana, the brave woman who had fought for the right so well, seemed cut off from it all, bearing the whole burden on her shoulders, and silently bowing her queenly head to the storm of woe and grief and destruction.