I slept like a log until the hour of noon—perfectly dreamless sleep. It was Virginia who awoke me then by shaking my shoulder, not (as usually) by opening the shutter. I heard the bells of the hour ringing and guessed the time; I remembered that Scipione was away; I remembered everything.

"I have your chocolate, Don Francis," she said. "Drink it and rise as soon as possible. You must be out of this."

I replied, "I see no reason for haste. I will write a letter—Ser
Bartolo shall take it for me—the answer will be satisfactory."

Virginia kept herself calm by main force. "The house is surrounded," she said. "You will be taken in your bed if you don't leave it soon." I sat up.

"Virginia, I ask your pardon." She shivered and turned away.

"Speak no more of that."

"But I must. You were right, and I—" She threw up her head with a little cry, fell upon her knees. She took my hand and covered it with kisses.

"No more. I cannot bear it. Who am I? What am I? Say what you please to me, but never plead with me." I could see her shoulders shaking.

"I must say what I have to say—" I would have continued. She gave another sharp cry—shivered again miserably. In the half light of the room I could see her lift her pale face towards the ceiling. It seemed to me that she prayed. After a while she looked down again and said quietly, "Speak now—and have done with it."

I told her what had occurred in the small hours; I did not spare myself.
When I said that I had shot Fra Palamone she shook her head.

"You might as well hope to shoot the devil. All you have done is to give yourself into the hands of them who hire him. You are to be sent to Volterra or the galleys for this. The men outside are sbirri."

I told her that I should write to Count Giraldi. She laughed. "Your Count Giraldi will be out of Florence. Do you think him a child? His one desire is to get rid of you. No, no. You must disguise yourself. This is a trap."

"I refused to take your word last night, my dear," I said, "and should be sorry to do it again. If the sbirri want me they can take me on a warrant."

"They have no warrant. They will get that afterwards. Do you think them so stupid? While they were getting their warrant you might get clear away. Or suppose you appeared? The whole story might come out, and a number of fine people implicated. And what of your English resident? And what of your Donna Aurelia, if you are not careful of yourself? Do you wish to get her name abroad? No, no. In Tuscany we imprison a man first and get the warrant afterwards, if necessary. That is how they will work, quietly, with decency—no conversations. They have been here since eight o'clock this morning, and the Piazza is quite empty. They have seen to that, of course. If you look through the shutter you can see them. They are in no sort of hurry."

I did look, and saw that she was right. There were no people in the Piazza—at midday—but four men, who stood at intervals in attitudes of detachment and irresponsibility far too pronounced to be real. The church was closed, most of the houses were shuttered; all this was too remarkable not to have been arranged. Virginia and I looked at one another; but she watched me like a cat, keeping guard over every movement of mine. One hand pressed her bosom, the other was stretched downwards—a straight, tense line from shoulder to finger-tips.

"Virginia, listen to me," I began; a heedless invocation. Every fibre of her listened and watched. "If this is a trap, as I agree it is, then you are the mouse. Nobody in Florence would care whether I have shot Fra Palamone, or he me. The count—taking him as you take him—knows that I have no intentions but honest ones towards Donna Aurelia; taking him as I take him he will defend me. No, my child, this is the marchese's affair. I can see that he has been after you from the time he saw you playing the handsome lady at Prato. He thinks he has you, but I will show him that he is wrong. Let me once get you away, be assured of your safety, and I shall open the door to the pleasure of these gentlemen. Father Carnesecchi—the count—oh, I have no fear of Palamone's posthumous acts, I can assure you."

I spoke cheerfully, confidently, but Virginia was put into great agitation. She began to flit about the room like a moth, wringing her hands and whimpering to herself.

"O Dio!" she fretted, "O Dio caro! What shall I do? Madonna, Madonna, Madonna, what will become of me?" She was quite inarticulate, could only repeat her names, and wail, and beat herself into a fever. I went to comfort her, and then, as if some tie were cut by the act, she turned upon me in a white tempest of fury, no longer a girl but a devil. "Do you dare?" she raved, "Do you dare? Oh, but I could kill you now with my hands!" She took me by the shoulders and stared into my face, panting her fierce breath upon me—blasts of breath as hot as fire. "Look at me, Francis, look at me, I say. You see the one person in the world who loves you. You fool, you fool, with your Giraldis and Aurelias and Jesuit dogs—with your head in the air, and your heart in your hand—to be thrown like soldi to these routing swine! Misery, ah, misery!" She flung her head sideways that she should not look at me, and with her hands gripped my shoulders till I winced. She tossed her hair from her face and leapt into the battle again, scolding, rating, praying like a mad thing. Her words came so fast that I cannot attempt their semblance here, and her voice rose and fell in a kind of querulous chant to which sometimes she nodded her head, as if she was beating the time. "Yes, I know, yes, I know—I will tell you the truth for once, and you shall kill Virginia with your own hands, and lay her on your bed and go away and be a fool. Your Jesuit wants your money, and your count your mistress, and Palamone will take you stripped of all and sell you to the Grand Duke. So you will kill your Virginia because she loves you, and love your Aurelia because she does not, and all those others will trick you, and play with you, and suck you dry, and throw you away like the rind of an orange. Ah, now you have the truth, and now you will kill me. Kill, kill, Francis!"

She had a fit of shivering which made her teeth chatter together and her breath draw in with a moaning most piteous to hear. She showed the whites of her eyes, swayed about, was on the point of falling, when all of a sudden she came to herself again, caught me in her arms, pressed her bosom against me, kissed me on the lips—kissed until I felt her teeth—then sprang from me, and before I could stop her was out of the room, and half way downstairs. Half divining her purpose, I flew to get her back, but was too late. I heard the street door open and shut. She was in the Piazza.

My landlord—he was a notary by trade, and by name Ser Torpe—was dismayed to see me in bedgown and slippers. "Never go as you are, sir!" he cried. "Go like an eccellenza, bid them fetch a chair. Light of Light, what a costume for Volterra!" I ran upstairs past him, took down my birding-piece, primed it and went to the window. Virginia was talking to two of the sbrri, putting up her hair as she did so, with complete unconcern of what she displayed. She was in her usual negligent undress— all her class are the same in the mornings—of a loose shift and stuff petticoat. Her bosom was bare, her bare feet were in slippers; for her hair she had but a single pin. It was to be seen that the men viewed her with admiration, as some wanton newly from her bed. They used an easy familiarity not at all pleasant; one of them, who could not take his eyes off her, said nothing, the other put his hand on her waist. I was angry with her, I confess without reason. She disengaged herself. I heard her impatient "No, no! ma senta—"; she continued in rapid undertones.

One of the men looked up at my window, and saw me, gun in hand. He shifted his glance a little higher and affected to be searching the roof of the house. A third man joined his companions; there was much laughing and jesting—no doubt some rough compliments passed. Virginia, however, steered her way to her main purpose through the tangle of confessions, excuses and refusals which they forced upon her; but I suppose she had to give some ground, for presently two of their heads came very close to hers. I saw their eager faces and Virginia's considering look. It was a courtship. She was playing her part, and they believed her to be what she appeared. That applied only to two of the three; the third, he who watched her so closely and said nothing, held apart. He had an ugly look. The others, absorbed in the pursuit, took no notice of him; but I kept my eyes upon him, and was not at all surprised at what followed.

Virginia, after long debate, pretended to yield. Something was proposed to her; she considered it. It was pressed upon her by two ardent voices; she looked awry and laughed. The chase quickened—one of the men took her hand, the other brought a coin from his pocket, spat on it, and pressed it on her. As she hesitated with the money on her palm, the silent watcher of all this whipped out a long knife and drove it into his comrade's back between the shoulders. He groaned deeply, flung his arms out and fell. The fourth man came running over the Piazza from his point, Virginia shrieked and ran back to the house. I saw—as if invisible barriers had been removed—men, women and boys come running in from all side streets. It was like a performance in a theatre.

Virginia, white and shaking, stood in my presence. "It is you they want,
Francis, I have heard all. You must go at once—at once."

"What were you doing with the sbirri?" I asked her.

"They made love to me, all three of them; but that dark man meant it, and the others not. It is very fortunate—it will give us time, which we need. Your Count Giraldi is in the country, as I told you he would be. There is no warrant. Come, we will be off. It will be perfectly safe while this confusion lasts. Dress yourself, put on your cloak, take your sword and pistol and come."

"You, too, must be dressed, child."

"I?" said she. "No, I am better as I am. I can be of more use." But she had a wiser thought, it appears; for by the time I was ready, she looked modestly enough.

The plot, if plot it had been, had failed. I got out of the house unnoticed and unfollowed, Virginia with me in a hood. There were soldiers now in the Piazza, keeping back the crowd. The dead man lay there still, and his assailant wore shackles. Boys were racing in and out among the people singing the news which everybody knew. "Martirio d'un pio frate! Assassino per amore! Ohe! Ohe!"

We went down the Via Belle Donne and crossed a small Piazza, taking our way, said Virginia, to the Ghetto, where she thought we might be perfectly safe for the rest of the day. There were so many hunted men there, said she, that in the confusion some must needs get away. The curtains were drawn over the barbers' shops, all doors were shut—it was the hour of repose. A few beggars sat in converse on the steps of San Michele, many were asleep in the shade, there were no passengers, no sbirri to be seen until we reached the Via Campidoglio. Here Virginia drew me back into the shadow of a great house. "That way is stopped. They are watching the market. Come, we will try something else." I admired her resourceful audacity, and followed whither she chose to lead.

We ran up the Via Vecchietta without disturbance or alarm, and reached the church of San Lorenzo. We entered the cloister, which breathed the full summer, late as it was in the year. Bees hummed about the tree; the glossy leaves of the great magnolia seemed to radiate heat and glitter; above us the sky was of almost midsummer whiteness, and I could see the heat-waves flicker above the dome. "You shall hide in the Sagrestia to- night, if you will be ruled by me," Virginia said. "To-morrow morning before first Mass we will gain the Ghetto. I know a woman there who will keep us. My word, Don Francis, you little guess how near the Bargello you have been!"

I think she was eager for my praises, poor soul, by the shy light in her eyes—a kind of preparation for the blushes with which she always met any warmth in my tone. If I gave her none it was because she had displeased me by cheapening herself to the sbirri. But I was soon ashamed of myself.

I asked her, "When did you find out that the sbirri were waiting for me?"

"The second hour of the day, it was," she replied, "when I went out to buy milk for your chocolate. There were but two of them then. They asked me if you were in the house. I said no. They said that you had killed a frate, and I, that I was sure he had deserved it. One of them laughed and said that had nothing to do with it; he had been sent there to be killed. The other one, that black-browed fellow who stabbed his comrade, said nothing at all, but just looked at me hard. He never took his eyes away once, so I guessed how his barque was steering, and you saw what wind I blew."

"I saw it, Virginia."

"And disapproved! Per esempio, you disapproved!" Tears filled her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders, pitying herself. "Povera Virginia!" she said.

This made me ashamed enough to say, "Dear Virginia, I know that you acted for my safety."

"Yes, I did! Yes, I did! But I would do worse. Ah, you little know how bad I would make myself. And you reproach me—" She was on the edge of a frenzy, but checked herself. "What does it matter now that you are safe? We will stop in the Sagrestia all night. They will never look for you there."

"But, my dear," said I, "we have three hours to wait before the Sagrestia is opened. Do you ask me to stay here, in this cloister, for that time?"

She looked embarrassed, for the truth is that she would have asked me if
I had not spoken of it. She had forgotten that I was not of her nation.
"No, no," she said hastily, "that is ridiculous. How could I ask you to
do such a thing as that? The question!"

"I am glad of it," I returned, "because there I can't oblige you. I must break my fast, so must you. By the time we have done, the Sagrestia may be ready for us. Observe also that in spending the night in that place I am obliging you, for I don't at all see why we should do it."

She searched my face with those grey eyes of hers, hunting my raillery out. The thing above all which she dreaded was to be laughed at. She never laughed herself, except bitterly, in anger, and hated the indulgence. Suspecting still what she failed to find, she fell in with my desire to eat, though she must have thought it preposterous, and me a madman to have it. She could never understand my attachment to custom, and never think of more than one thing at a time. Just now she was engaged in hiding me from justice—to succeed in which task she would have sat still for an eternity and gone without a thousand meals. What an outcry she must have had ready for me—and how she must have loved her hard taskmaster! She did violence to all her feelings, fell in with my desire at once.

"Naturally, Don Francis, you must eat. Naturally, I must eat. Naturally, by the time we have finished, the Sagrestia will be open. Very good, Don Francis. But as to spending the night in the Sagrestia, shall I be impertinent if I tell you that by this time there is not a locanda in Florence that has not got a full and exact description of you and me, and not a landlord among them that would not hand you over for two baiocchi?"

"How do you know that, my dear?" I asked.

She stretched out her arms. "How do I know? Hear him! How do I know that my mother is a woman and my father a man? Dio buono! Have I lived in my sty with my eyes shut? And herded with thieves, and taken them for marchesi? But you shall be fed, Don Francis. Leave that to me. Do you stay here quietly, I will get you some food."

I said that I must come with her, whereupon she began to cry bitterly, to call me heartless and cruel, to pity herself in the most deplorable terms. She nursed and fondled herself by name. "Povera Virginia! Poor little Virginia, that works so hard for her tyrant and gives herself no rest. But he is cruel—more cruel than if he beat her—stabs her heart with cold words, rends it with sharp fingers. Poor little Virginia, poor little outcast from the Madonna!"

I have not a heart of stone: I confess that her distress made me dreadfully ashamed. This good soul, whose only happiness lay in mine, who had trusted her all in all to me without flinching, whose life was now at my disposal as her honour had been for so long. Unworthy of the name of man had I been if I could wound her so lightly. I put my arm round her waist and drew her towards me with tenderness. I took her hands from her face and implored her forgiveness. I promised to offend her no more, to stay in the cloister until she came, to sleep in the Sagrestia, to do all her behests. In answer, the sun came out in her face. She listened to me with soft rapture, beautiful to see, and before I had done, the dear, generous creature snatched at my hand, and, kneeling, kissed it with a frenzy of devotion which brought the tears to my eyes. Immediately afterwards she was gone on her errand of mercy, leaving me in a glow of truly honest gratitude, which was to have its speedy fruit in an act which, though it fell short of my intention, was to prove for my ultimate content.