A crowd of men now came running down from Corellia, roused by the church-bells.  Pietro, the baker, still hard at work, was the first to hear the bell, to dash into the street, and shout, “Help! help!  Fire! fire!  At the villa!”

Oreste and Pilade heard him.  They came tumbling out.  Ser Giacomo roused the sindaco—­who in his turn woke his clerk; but when Mr. Sindaco was fairly off down the hill, this much-injured and very weary youth turned back and went to bed.

Some bore lighted torches, others copper buckets.  Pietro, the butcher, brought the municipal ladder.  These men promptly formed a line down the hill, to carry the water from the willful mountain-stream that fed the town fountain.  Fra Pacifico took the lead. (He had heard the alarm, and had rung the church-bells himself.) No one cared for the marchesa; but a burning house was a fine sight, and where Fra Pacifico went all Corellia followed.  Adamo, recovered now, was soon upon the ladder, receiving the buckets from below.  Pipa beside the fountain watched the marchesa, sprinkling water on her face.  “Surely her eyelids faintly quiver!” thinks Pipa.—­Pipa watched the marchesa speechless—­watched her as birth and death are only watched!

The marchesa’s eyes had quivered; now they slowly unclose.  Pipa, who, next to the Virgin and the saints, worshiped her mistress—­laughed wildly—­sobbed—­then laughed again—­kissed her hand, her forehead—­then pressed her in her arms.  Supported by Pipa, the marchesa sat up—­she turned, and then she saw the mountains of smoke bursting from the tower, forming into great clouds that rose over the tree-tops, and shut out the stars.  The marchesa glanced quickly round with her keen, black eyes—­she glanced as one searching for some thing she cannot find; then her lips parted, and one word fell faintly from them:  “Enrica!”

Pipa caught the half-uttered name, she echoed it with a scream.

“Ahi!  The signorina!  The Signorina Enrica!”

Pipa shouted to Adamo on the ladder.

“Adamo!  Adamo! where is the signorina?”

Adamo’s heart sank at her voice.  On the instant he recalled that cry he had heard upon the stairs.

“Where did you see her last?” Adamo shouted back to Pipa out of the din—­his big stupid eyes looking down upon her face.  “Up-stairs?”

Pipa nodded.  She could not speak, it was too horrible.

“Santo Dio!  I did not know it!” He struck upon his breast.  “Assassin!  I have killed her!  Assassin!  Beast! what have I done?”

Again the air rang with Pipa’s shrill cries.  The Corellia men, who with eager hands pass the buckets down the hill, stop, and stare, and wonder.  Fra Pacifico, who had eyes and ears for every one, turned, and ran forward to where Pipa sat wringing her hands upon the ground, the marchesa leaning against her.

“Is Enrica in the tower?” asked Fra Pacifico.

“Yes, yes!” the marchesa answered feebly.  “You must save her!”