A sudden revulsion seized her.  She raised her head with that snake-like action natural to her.  The blood rushed to her face and neck.  Guglielmi then still had hope?—­All was not lost.  In an instant her energy returned to her.  What could she do to keep him?  Would Enrica—­Enrica was still within the chapel.  The marchesa heard the murmur of voices coming through the corridor.  No, though she worshiped him, Enrica would never lend herself to tempt Nobili with the bait of her beauty—­no, even though she was his wife.  It would be useless to ask her.  “Keep him—­how?” the marchesa asked herself with feverish impatience.  Every moment was precious.  She heard footsteps.  They must be leaving the chapel.  Nobili, perhaps, was going.  No.  The door to the garden, by which Nobili had entered the chapel, was now locked.  Adamo had given her the key.  She must therefore see them when they passed out through the sala.  At this moment the howling of the dogs was audible.  They were chained up in the cave under the tower.  Poor beasts, they had been forgotten in the hurry of the day.  The dogs were hungry; were yelping for their food.  Through the open door the marchesa saw Adamo pass—­a sudden thought struck her.

“Adamo!”

“Padrona.”  And Adamo’s bullet-head and broad shoulders fill up the doorway.

“Where is Count Nobili?”

“Along with the lawyer from Lucca.”

“He is safe, then, for the present,” the marchesa told herself.

Adamo could not speak for staring at his mistress as she stood opposite to him full in the light.  He had never seen such a look upon her face all the years he had served her.

She almost smiled at him.

“Adamo,” the marchesa addresses him eagerly, “come here.  How many years have you lived with me?”

Adamo grins and shows two rows of white teeth.

“Thirty years, padrona—­I came when I was a little lad.”

“Have I treated you well, Adamo?”

As she asks this question, the marchesa moves close to him.

“Have I ever complained,” is Adamo’s answer, “that the marchesa asks me?”

“You saved my life, Adamo, not long ago, from the fire.”  The eager look is growing intenser.  “I have never thanked you.  Adamo—­”

“Padrona”—­he is more and more amazed at her—­“she must be going to die!  Gesu mio!  I wish she would swear at me,” Adamo thought.  “Padrona, don’t thank me—­Domine Dio did it.”

“Take these”—­and the marchesa puts her hand into her pocket and draws out some notes—­“take these, these are better than thanks.”

Adamo drew back much affronted.  “Padrona, I don’t want money.”

“Yes, yes, take them—­for Pipa and the boys”—­and she thrusts the notes into his big red hands.

“After all,” thought Adamo to himself, “if the padrona is going to die, I may as well have these notes as another.”

“I would save your life any day, padrona,” Adamo says aloud.  “It is a pleasure.”