bed; and the marchesa had charged him to watch her, and let her know when she came to her senses.  Neither the cavaliere nor Pipa knew that Enrica had had a letter from Nobili.  Pipa noticed a paper in her hand, but did not know what it was.  The signorina had been struck down in a fit, was Pipa’s explanation.  It was very terrible, but God or the devil—­she could not tell which—­did send fits.  They must be borne.  An end would come.  She had done all she could.  Seeing no present change, Trenta rose to go to the marchesa.  His joints were so stiff he could not move at all without his stick, and the furrows which had deepened upon his face were moistened with tears.

“Is Enrica no better?” the marchesa asked him, in a voice she tried to steady, but could not.  She trembled all over.

“Enrica is no better,” he answered.

“Will she die?” the marchesa asked again.

“Who can tell?  She is in the hands of God.”

As he spoke, Trenta shot an angry scowl at his friend—­he knew her so well.  If Enrica died the Guinigi race was doomed—­that made her tremble, not affection for Enrica.  A word more from the marchesa, and Trenta would have told her this to her face.

“We are all in the hands of God,” the marchesa repeated, solemnly, and crossed herself.  “I believe little in doctors.”

“Still,” said Trenta, “if there is no change, it is our duty to send for one.  Is there any doctor at Corellia?”

“None nearer than Lucca,” she replied.  “Send for Fra Pacifico.  If he thinks it of any use, a man shall be dispatched to Lucca immediately.”

“Surely you will let Count Nobili know the danger Enrica is in?”

“No, no!” cried the marchesa, fiercely.  “Count Nobili comes back here to marry Enrica or not at all.  I will not have him on any other terms.  If the child dies, he will not come.  That at least will be a gain.”

Even on the brink of death and ruin she could think of this!

“Enrica will not die! she will not die!” sobbed the poor old cavaliere, breaking down all at once.  He sank upon a chair and covered his face.

The marchesa rose and placed her hand upon his shoulder.  Her heart was bleeding, too, but from another cause.  She bore her wounds in silence.  To complain was not in the marchesa’s nature.  It would have increased her suffering rather than have relieved it.  Still she pitied her old friend, although no word expressed it; nothing but the pressure of her hand resting upon his shoulder.  Trenta’s sobs were the only sound that broke the silence.

“This is losing time,” she said.  “Send at once for Fra Pacifico.  Until he comes, we know nothing.”

When Fra Pacifico’s rugged, mountainous figure entered Enrica’s room, he seemed to fill it.  First, he blessed the sweet girl lying before him with such a terrible mockery of life in her widely-opened eyes.  His deep voice shook and his grave face twitched as he pronounced the “Beatus.”  Leaning over the bed, Fra Pacifico proceeded to examine her in silence.  He uncovered her feet, and felt her heart, her hands, her forehead, lifting up the shining curls as he did so with a tender touch, and laying them out upon the pillow, as reverently as he would replace a relic.