He tapped on the door.  The girl did not turn, but she put her hands on the keys quickly, as if ashamed to have them found idle.

“Ah, Phelim,” she said, “you are more than prompt; you never keep one waiting,” and she began to play very softly.

The earl was embarrassed.  Despite his crime, he still had breeding left him, and he felt compelled to make his presence known.  He knocked again.

“Don’t interrupt me, Phelim,” she said; “this is my swan-song; listen;” and she began to sing.  She sang bravely, at first, with her head held high, and then, suddenly, her voice began to falter.

“Ah, Phelim, dear,” she cried, “I’ve lost my love!  I’ve lost my love!” and she put her hands to her face and fell to sobbing.

“Nora!” said the earl.  It was the first word he had spoken, and she raised her head, startled.

“Here is the cup, Nora,” he said.

She sprang to her feet and turned to him, tears on her cheeks, but a light in her eyes such as he had never seen.

“Oh, my love,” she cried, “I should have known you’d bring it.”

“Yes,” he said, “you should have known.”

She stood, blushing, radiant, eager, waiting.

He stood in the doorway, pale, quiet, his arms at his side, the cup in his hand.

“Nora,” he said, “I’ve brought you the cup, but I do not dare to give it to you.  I stole it.”

“What?” she cried, running toward him.  She stopped suddenly and began to laugh—­a pitiful little laugh, pitched in an unnatural key.  “You shouldn’t frighten me like that, Bobby,” she said; “it isn’t fair.”

“It is true,” said the earl; “I am a thief.”

She looked at him and saw that he was speaking the truth.

“No,” she cried, “’tis I am the thief, not you.  The cardinal warned me that I was compelling you to this, and I laughed at him.  I thought that you would achieve the cup, if you cared for me; that you would render some service to the State and claim it as your reward—­that you would make a fortune, and buy it—­that you would make friends at the Vatican—­that you would build churches, found hospitals, that even the Holy Father might ask you to name something within his gift—­I thought of a thousand schemes, such as one reads of—­but I never thought you would take it.  No, no; I never thought that.”

“Nora,” said the earl, “I didn’t know how to do any of those things, and I didn’t have time to learn.”

“I would have waited for you, always,” she said.

“I didn’t know that,” said the earl.

“I hoped you didn’t,” said Lady Nora.  “Come!” and she sprang through the door.  The earl followed her.  They ran up the companion-way, across the deck, down the boarding-stairs.  The earl’s gondola was waiting.

“To the molo in five minutes,” cried Lady Nora to the poppe, “and you shall be rich.”

They went into the little cabin.  The earl still held the cup in his hand.  They sat far apart—­each longing to comfort the other—­each afraid to speak.  Between them was a great gulf fixed—­the gulf of sin and shame.