Every hour passed at Corellia was torture to him.  Should he go at once, or should he remain until the morning?—­sign the deed?—­complete the sacrifice?  Already what he had so loudly insisted on presented itself now to him in the light of a sacrifice.  Enrica loved him still—­he believed Fra Pacifico.  The throbbing of his heart as he thought of her told him that he returned that love.  She was there near him under the same roof.  Could he leave her?  Yes, he must leave her!  He would trust himself no longer in the hands of the marchesa or of her agent.  Instinct told him some subtle scheme lay under the urgings of Guglielmi—­the dangerous civilities of the marchesa.  He would go.  The legal separation might be completed elsewhere.  Why only at Corellia?  Why must those formalities insisted on by Guglielmi be respected?  What did they mean?  Of the real drift of the delay Nobili was utterly ignorant.  Had he asked Fra Pacifico, he would have told him the truth, but he had not done so.

To meet Enrica in the morning; to meet her again in the presence of her detested aunt; to meet her only to sign a deed separating them forever under the mockery of mutual consent, was agony.  Why should he endure it?

Nobili, wrought up to a pitch of excitement that almost robbed him of reason, dares not trust himself to think.  He seizes his hat, which lay upon the table, and rushes out into the night.  The murmur of voices comes dimly to him in the freshness of the air out of a window next his own.  A circle of light shines on the glistening gravel before him.  There must be people within—­people watching him, doubtless.  As the thought crosses his mind he is suddenly pinned to the earth.  Argo is watching for him—­stealthy Argo—­Argo springs upon him silently from behind; he holds him tightly in his grip.  The dog made no sound, nor does he now, but he has laid Nobili flat on the ground.  He stands over him, his heavy paws planted upon his chest, his open jaws and dripping tongue close upon his face, so close, that Nobili feels the dog’s hot breath upon his skin.  Nobili cannot move; he looks up fixedly into Argo’s glaring, bloodshot eyes.  His steady gaze daunts the dog.  In the very act of digging his big fangs into Nobili’s throat Argo pauses; he shrinks before those human eyes before which the brutish nature quails.  In an instant Nobili’s strong hands close round his throat; he presses it until the powerful paws slacken in their grip—­until the fiery eyes are starting from their sockets.

Silent as is the struggle the other dogs are alarmed—­they give tongue from different sides.  Footsteps are rapidly approaching—­the barrel of a gun gleams out of the darkness—­a shot is fired—­the report wanders off in endless reverberation among the rocks—­another shot, and another, in instant succession, answer each other from behind the villa.

With a grasp of iron Nobili holds back gallant Argo—­Argo foaming at the mouth; his white-coated chest heaving, as if in his last agony!  Yet Argo is still immovable—­his heavy paws upon Nobili’s chest pressing with all his weight upon him!