In the drawer of a bureau she had found a revolver which Rossi had left

with her on the night he went away. His name had been inscribed on it by

the persons who sent it as a present, but Roma gave no thought to that.

Rossi was in prison, therefore beyond suspicion, and she was entirely

indifferent to detection. When she had done what she intended to do she

would give herself up. She would avow everything, seek no means of

justification, and ask for no mercy even in the presence of death. Her

only defence would be that the Baron, who was guilty, had to be sent to

the supreme tribunal. It would then be for the court to take the

responsibility of fixing the moral weight of her motive in the scales of

human justice.

With these sublime feelings she began to examine the revolver. She

remembered that when Rossi had given it to her she had recoiled from the

touch of the deadly weapon, and it had fallen out of her fingers. No

such fear came to her now, as she turned it over in her delicate hands

and tried to understand its mechanism. There were six chambers, and to

know if they were loaded she pulled the trigger. The vibration and the

deafening noise shook but did not frighten her.

The deaf old woman had heard the shot, and she came upstairs panting and

with a pallid face.

"Mercy, Signora! What's happened? The Blessed Virgin save us! A

revolver!"

Roma tried to speak with unconcern. It was Mr. Rossi's revolver. She had

found it in the bureau. It must be loaded--it had gone off.

The words were vague, but the tone quieted the old woman. "Thank the

saints it's nothing worse. But why are you so pale, Signora? What is the

matter with you?"

Roma averted her eyes. "Wouldn't you be pale too if a thing like this

had gone off in your hands?"

By this time the Garibaldian had hobbled up behind his wife, and when

all was explained the old people announced that they were going out to

see the illuminations on the Pincio.

"They begin at eleven o'clock and go on to twelve or one, Signora.

Everybody in the house has gone already, or the shot would have made a

fine sensation."

"Good-night, Tommaso! Good-night, Francesca!"

"Good-night, Signora. We'll have to leave the street door open for the

lodgers coming back, but you'll close your own door and be as safe as

sardines."

The Garibaldian raised his pork-pie hat and left the door ajar. It was

half-past ten and the piazza was very quiet. Roma sat down to write a

letter.




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