“He will recover,” answered Veronica, coldly.  “You can still understand me, at all events, even if he cannot.  You have your choice.  If you tell me the truth, I will not allow any inquiry.  I will take over my fortune, if you have left me any, and for the sake of my father’s name, I will not bring you to justice, even if you have ruined me.  But I warn you—­and it is the last time, for I am going—­if you still try to deny what I know to be the truth, the prosecution shall begin to-morrow.  You will not be able to murder me, for I shall be protected, and with all your abominable courage you are not brave enough to try and kill me here, before I leave this room.  No—­you are not.  I am not afraid of you.  But you have reason to be afraid.  You will be convicted.  Nothing can save you.  Though people do not know me as they knew my father,—­though I am only a girl and came to you, straight from the convent,—­I know that I have power, and I shall use it.  I am not poor Elettra, whom you intended to accuse.  I am the Princess of Acireale; I have been your ward; you and your husband have robbed me, and you have tried to murder me.  Though I am only a girl, justice will move more quickly for me than it would for you, even if you could call it to help you.  Now choose, and waste no time.”

While she had been speaking, Macomer had stared at her with an expression of genuine childish amusement.

“Poor Pulcinella!” he exclaimed softly.  “How your wife can talk, when she is angry!  Poor fellow!”

The tone was so natural that Matilde again looked at him uneasily, and moved nearer to him, not answering Veronica.

“Come, Gregorio,” she said, “you are ill.  Come to your room—­you must not stay here.”

“I am sorry you do not like the marionettes,” he said gravely.  “They always amuse me.  Stay a little longer.”

Veronica supposed that he was ill from the effects of the poisoning and that he was in some sort of delirium.  But she did not pity him, and was relentless.  She moved nearer to her aunt.

“Answer me!” she said sternly.  “This is the last time.  If you deny the truth now, I will go to the chief of police at once.”

“Oh! poor old Pulcinella!” cried Macomer, laughing gently.  “How she gives it to him!”

Matilde was almost distracted.

“You will be arrested at once,” said Veronica, pitilessly.

“Never mind, Pulcinella!” exclaimed Macomer.  “Courage, my friend!  You know you always get away from the policeman!  Ha! ha! ha!”

Matilde saw Veronica moving to go to the door.  She straightened herself and pointed to her husband.

“Yes,” she said.  “He did it—­and he is mad.”

Her voice was firm and clear, for the die was cast.  When she had spoken, she turned from them both towards the fireplace, and hid her face in her hands.  If he could act his madness out, she, at least, would still be free and alive.  Veronica stood still a moment longer, looking back.