“No change!” he said, sadly—­“no change!  Poor child, how she must have suffered!  And alone, too!  There is some mistake—­obviously some mistake.”

“No mistake about the wretch having forsaken her,” interrupted Trenta, firing up at what he considered Fra Pacifico’s ill-placed leniency.  “Domine Dio!  No mistake about that.”

“Yes, but there must be,” insisted the other.  “I have known Nobili from a boy.  He is incapable of such villainy.  I tell you, cavaliere, Nobili is utterly incapable of it.  He has been deceived.  By-and-by he will bitterly repent this,” and Fra Pacifico held up the letter.

“Yes,” answered Trenta, bitterly—­“yes, if she lives.  If he has killed her, what will his repentance matter?”

“Better wait, however, until we know more.  Nobili may be hot-headed, vain, and credulous, but he is generous to a fault.  If he cannot justify himself, why, then”—­the priest’s voice changed, his swarthy face flushed with a dark glow—­“I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—­charity demands this—­but if Nobili cannot justify himself”—­(the cavaliere made an indignant gesture)—­“leave him to me.  You shall be satisfied, cavaliere.  God deals with men’s souls hereafter, but he permits bodily punishment in this world.  Nobili shall have his, I promise you!”

Fra Pacifico clinched his huge fist menacingly, and dealt a blow in the air that would have felled a giant.

Having given vent to his feelings, to the unmitigated delight of the cavaliere, who nodded and smiled—­for an instant forgetting his sorrow, and Enrica lying there—­Fra Pacifico composed himself.

“The marchesa must see that letter,” he said, in his usual manner.  “Take it to her, cavaliere.  Hear what she says.”

The cavaliere took the letter in silence.  Then he shrugged his shoulders despairingly.

“I must go now to Corellia.  I will return soon.  That Enrica still lives is full of hope.”  Fra Pacifico said this, turning toward the little bed with its modest shroud of white linen curtains.  “But I can do nothing.  The feeble spark of life that still lingers in her frame would fly forever if tormented by remedies.  I have hope in God only.”  And he gave a heavy sigh.

Before Fra Pacifico departed, he took some holy water from a little vessel near the bed, and sprinkled it upon Enrica.  He ordered Pipa to keep her very warm, and to watch every breath she drew.  Then he glided from the room with the light step of one well used to sickness.

Cavaliere Trenta followed him slowly.  He paused motionless in the open doorway, his eyes, from which the tears were streaming, fixed on Enrica—­the fatal letter in his hand.  At length he tore himself away, closed the door, and, crossing the sala, knocked at the door of the marchesa’s apartment.

* * * * *