Taquisara. F. Marion Crawford

his voice could speak. "You shall not hurt a hair of her head, not even to save yourself! I will warn her—I will have her protected—I will tell everything! What is my life worth?"

      "You would merely be told that you were mad, and we should have you taken out to the asylum at Aversa—as mad as I am, or soon shall be, if this goes on! You are mad to believe that I could do such things—I, a woman! And yet, I know I say words that have no reason in them! And I think crimes—horrible crimes, when I am alone—and I can tell no one but you. Have pity on me, Bosio! I was not always what I am now—"

      She spoke incoherently, and her steadiness broke down all at once, for she had been living long under a fearful strain of terror and anxiety. The consciousness that she could say with safety whatever came first to her lips helped to weaken her. She half expected that Bosio would rise, and come to her and comfort her, perhaps, as she hid her face in her hands, shivering in fear of herself and shaking a little with the convulsive sob that was so near.

      But Bosio did not move from his seat. He sat quite still, staring at the fire. He was not a physical coward, but, morally speaking, he was terrified and stunned by what he had understood her to say. Probably no man of any great strength of character, however bad, could have lived the life he had led in that house for many years, dominated by such a woman as Matilde Macomer. And now his weakness showed itself, to himself and to her, in what he felt, and in what he did, respectively. A strong man, having once felt that revival of manly instinct, would have turned upon her and terrified her and mastered her; and, within himself, his heart might have broken because he had ever loved such a woman. But Bosio sat still in his seat and said nothing more, though his brow was moist with a creeping, painful, trembling emotion that twisted his heart and tore his delicate nerves. He felt that his hands were very cold, but that he could not speak. She dominated him still, and he was ashamed of the weakness, and of his own desire to go and comfort her and forget the things she had said.

      If he had spoken to her, she would have burst into tears; but his silence betrayed that he had no strength, and she suddenly felt that she was strong again, and that there was hope, and that he might marry Veronica, after all. A woman rarely breaks down to very tears before a man weaker than herself, though she may be near it.

      "You must marry her," said Matilde, with returning steadiness. "You owe it to your brother and to me. Should I say, 'to me,' first? It is to save us from disgrace—from being prosecuted as well as ruined, from being dragged into court to answer for having wilfully defrauded—that is the word they would use!—for having wilfully defrauded Veronica Serra of a great deal of money, when we were her guardians and responsible for everything she had. My hands are clean of that—your brother did it without my knowledge. But no judge living would believe that I, being a guardian with my husband, could be so wholly ignorant of his affairs. There are severe penalties for such things, Bosio—I believe that we should both be sent to penal servitude; for no power on earth could save us from a conviction, any more than anything but Veronica's money can save us from ruin now. Gregorio has taken much, but it has been, nothing compared with the whole fortune. If you marry her, she will never know—no one will know—no one will ever guess. As her husband you will have control of everything, and no one then will blame you for taking a hundredth part of your wife's money to save your brother. You will have the right to do it. Your hands will be clean, too, as they are to-day. What is the crime? What is the difficulty? What is the objection? And on the other side there is ruin, a public trial, a conviction and penal servitude for your own brother, Gregorio, Count Macomer, and Matilde Serra, his wife."

      "My God! What a choice!" exclaimed Bosio, pressing both his cold hands to his wet forehead.

      "There is no choice!" answered the woman, with low, quick emphasis. "Your mind is made up, and we will announce the engagement at once. I do not care what objection Veronica makes. She likes you, she is half in love with you—what other man does she know? And if she did—she would not repent of marrying you rather than any one else. You will make her happy—as for me, I shall at least not die a disgraced woman. You talk of choice! Mine would be between a few drops of morphia and the galleys—a thousand times more desperate than yours, it seems to me!"

      Her large eyes flashed with the furious determination to make him do what she desired. His hands had fallen from his face, and he was looking at her almost quietly, not yielding so much as she thought, but at least listening gravely instead of telling her that she asked the impossible.

      The door opened discreetly, and a servant appeared upon the threshold.

      "The Signor Duca della Spina begs your Excellency to receive him for a moment, if it is not too late."

      "Certainly," answered the countess, instantly, and with perfect self-control.

      The servant closed the door and went back to deliver the short message. Matilde threw the folds of her black gown away from her feet, so that she might rise to meet the visitor, who was an old man and a person of importance. She looked keenly at Bosio.

      "Do not go away," she said quickly, in a low voice. "Your forehead is wet—dry it—compose yourself—be natural!"

      Before Bosio had returned his handkerchief to his pocket the door opened again, and a tall old man entered with a stooping gait. He had weak and inquiring eyes that looked about the room as he walked. His head was bald, and shone like a skull in the yellow reflexion from the damask hangings. His gait was not firm, and as he passed Bosio in order to reach the countess, he had an uncertain movement of head and hand, as though he were inclined to speak to him first. Matilde had risen, however, and had moved a step forward to meet the visitor, speaking at the same time, as though to direct him to herself, with the somewhat maternal air which even young women sometimes assume in greeting old men.

      The Duca della Spina smiled rather feebly as he took the outstretched hand, and slowly sat down upon the sofa beside Matilde.

      "I feared it might be too late," he began, and his watery blue eyes sought her face anxiously. "But my son insisted that I should come this evening, when he found that I had not been able to see you this afternoon."

      "How is he?" asked the countess, suddenly assuming an expression of great concern.

      "Eh! How he is! He is—so," answered the Duca, with a gesture which meant uncertainty. "Signora Contessa," he added, "he is not well at all. It is natural with the young. It is passion. What else can I tell you? He is impatient. His nerves shake him, and he does not eat. Morning and evening he asks, 'Father, what will it be?' So, to content him, I have come to disturb you."

      "Not in the least, dear Duca!"

      The door opened again, and Gregorio Macomer entered the room, having been informed of the presence of a visitor. The Duca looked up, and his head shook involuntarily, as he at once began the slow process of getting upon his legs. But Macomer was already pressing him into his seat again, holding the old hand in both of his with an appearance of much cordiality.

      "I hope that Gianluca is no worse?" he said, with an interrogation that expressed friendly interest.

      "Better he is not," answered the Duca, sadly. "What would you? It is passion. That is why I have come at this hour, and I have made my excuses to the Signora Contessa for disturbing her."

      "Excuses?" cried Gregorio, promptly. "We are delighted to see you, dear friend!"

      But as he spoke he turned a look of inquiry upon his wife, and she answered by a scarcely perceptible sign of negation.

      They had been taken by surprise, for they had not expected the Duca's visit. Not heeding them, his heart full of his son, the old man continued to speak, in short, almost tremulous sentences.

      "It is certain that Gianluca is very ill," he said. "Taquisara has been with him to-day, and Pietro Ghisleri—but Taquisara is his best friend. You know Taquisara, do you not?"

      "A Sicilian?" asked the countess, encouraging the old man to go on.

      "Yes," said Macomer, answering for the Duca, for he was proud of his genealogical knowledge, "The only son of the old Baron of Guardia. But every one calls him Taquisara, though his father is dead. There