I found the door ajar and Moll pacing the room very white, when I returned.  She checked me the moment I essayed to deliver Dario’s message.

“You can save your breath,” says she, passionately, “I’ve heard every word.”

“More shame for you,” says I, in a passion, casting my purse on the table. “’Tis infamous to treat an honest gentleman thus, and silly besides.  Come, dear,” altering my tone, “do let me run and fetch him back.”

“You forget whom you are speaking to, Mr. Hopkins,” cries she.

I saw ’twas impossible to move her whilst she was in this mood, for she had something of her father’s obstinate, stubborn disposition, and did yet hope to bring Dario back to her feet, like a spaniel, by harsh treatment.  But he came no more, though a palette he had overlooked could have given him the excuse, and for very vexation with Moll I was glad he did not.

He had not removed the scaffold, but when I went upon it to see what else he had put into his painting, the fading light only allowed me to make out a figure that seemed to be leaning over the balcony.

Moll would not go in there, though I warrant she was dying of curiosity; and soon after supper, which she could scarce force herself to touch, she went up to her own chamber, wishing us a very distant, formal good-night, and keeping her passionate, angry countenance.

But the next morning, ere I was dressed, she knocked at my door, and, opening it, I found her with swollen eyes and tears running down her cheeks.

“Come down,” says she, betwixt her sobs, and catching my hand in hers.  “Come down and see.”

So we went downstairs together,—­I wondering what now had happened,—­and so into the dining-hall.  And there I found the scaffold pushed aside, and the ceiling open to view.  Then looking up, I perceived that the figure bending over the balcony bore Moll’s own face, with a most sweet, compassionate expression in it as she looked down, such as I had observed when she bent over Dario, having brought him back to life.  And this, thinks I, remembering his words, this is what he must ever see when he looks heavenwards.

CHAPTER XXI.

Of the strange things told us by the wise woman.

“Tell me I am wicked; tell me I’m a fool,” says Moll, clinging to my arm.

But I had no feeling now but pity and forgiveness, and so could only try to comfort her, saying we would make amends to Dario when we saw him next.

“I will go to him,” says she.  “For nought in the world would I have him yield to such a heartless fool as I am.  I know where he lodges.”

“Well, when we have eaten—­”

“Nay; we must go this moment.  I cannot be at peace till I have asked him to forgive.  Come with me, or I must go alone.”