“He was mad!” Matilde broke in.  “You are mad, too—­”

“Oh no!” interrupted Veronica, with contempt.  “You cannot fasten that upon me.  I am not mad at all, and I will show you what it is to be sane, for I know that every word of what Bosio told Don Teodoro was true.  I was foolish not to believe it at once—­it almost cost my life to believe you better than you are.”

“He was quite insane,” muttered Gregorio, in almost imbecile repetition of what his wife had said.

Matilde made another great effort to impose her remaining strength upon the young girl.

“Whether you are mad or not, you shall not stand there accusing me of monstrous crimes!” she cried, moving a step towards Veronica, and raising her hand with a menacing gesture.

“Shall not?” repeated Veronica, proudly, and instead of retreating she advanced calmly to meet her aunt.

“Would you not rather that I accused you here, and proved you guilty and let you go free, than that I should do as much in a court of justice?  You know what the end of that would be—­penal servitude for you both—­and unless—­” she paused, for she was growing hot and she wished to speak with coolness.

“Unless?” Matilde uttered the one word scornfully, still facing her.

“Unless you will confess the truth, here, before I leave the house, I will do what I can to have you both convicted,” said Veronica.  “That is your only chance.  That or the galleys.  Choose.  You are thieves and murderers.  Choose.”

She spoke like a man to those who would have murdered her and had failed, but who had robbed her with impunity for years.  Gregorio Macomer’s face was all distorted.  All at once his maniac laugh broke out.  But it stopped suddenly and unexpectedly, and it changed to another sort of laughter—­low and not unpleasant to hear, but a little vacant.  Matilde turned her head slowly and gazed at him.  He was bending now and resting his elbows on the head of the couch, instead of his hands, and he held his hands themselves opposite to each other, crooking first one finger and then another, and making one finger bow to the other, as children sometimes do, and laughing vacantly to himself, with a queer little chuckle of enjoyment.  Veronica stared.  Matilde held her breath.  Still he laughed softly.

“Marionettes,” he said, looking up at his wife, his little eyes wide open.  “Do you see the marionettes?  This is Pulcinella.  This is his wife.  Do you see how they quarrel?  Is it not pretty?  I always like to see the marionettes in the streets.  Ha! ha! ha! see them!”

And he played with his fingers and made them bob and bow, like little dolls.

“He is ill,” said Matilde, in a low, uneasy voice.  “Pay no attention to him.”

He had always intended to save himself by pretending to go mad, but even Matilde was amazed at his power of acting.