VIII When Roma regained consciousness, there was not a sound in the

apartment. Even the piazza outside was quiet. Somebody was playing a

mandoline a long way off, and the thin notes were trembling through the

still night. A dog was barking in the distance. Save for these sounds

everything was still.

Roma lay for some minutes in a state of semi-consciousness. Her head was

swimming with vague memories, and she was unable at first to disentangle

the thread of them. At length she remembered all that had happened, and

she wept bitterly.

But when the first tenderness was over the one feeling which seized and

held her was hatred of the Baron. Rossi had told her the man was dead,

and she felt no pity. The Baron deserved his death, and if Rossi had

killed him it was no crime.

She was still lying where she had fallen when a noise as of some one

moving came from the adjoining room. Then a voice called to her: "Roma!"

It was the Baron's voice, broken and feeble. A great terror took hold of

her. Then came a sense of shame, and finally a feeling of relief. The

Baron was not dead. Thank God! O thank God!

She got up and went into the dining-room. The Baron was on his knees

struggling to climb to the couch. His shirt front was partly dragged out

of his breast, and the Order of the Annunziata was torn away. There was

a streak of blood over his left eyebrow, and no other sign of injury.

But his eyes themselves were glassy, and his face was pale as death.

"I'm dying, Roma."

"I'll run for a doctor," she said.

"No. Don't do that. I don't want to be found here. Besides, it's

useless. In five minutes a clot of blood will have covered the lacerated

brain, and I shall lose consciousness again. Stupid, isn't it?"

"Let me call for a priest," said Roma.

"Don't do that either. You can do me more good yourself, Roma. Give me a

drink."

Roma was fighting with an almost unconquerable repugnance, but she

brought the Baron a drink of water, and with shaking hands held the

glass to his trembling lips.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Worse," he answered.

He looked into her eyes with evident contrition, and said, "I wonder if

it would be fair to ask you to forgive me? Would it?"

She did not answer, and he stretched himself and sighed. His breathing

became laboured and stertorous, his skin hot, and his eyes dilated.




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