How the men drag at the ribbons, whirling round and round, hand-in-hand!—­Nera’s small hand can scarcely hold them—­the men whirling round every instant faster—­tumbling over each other, indeed; each moment the ribbons are dragged harder.  Nera laughs; she sways from side to side, her arms extended.  Faster and more furiously the men whirl round—­like runaway horses now, bearing dead upon the reins.  The strain is too great, Nera lets fall the ring.  The cavaliere claps his hands.  Each gentleman rushes toward the lady wearing a rosette matching his ribbon.  Nera rises.  Already she is encircled by Nobili’s arm.  He draws her to him; she makes one step forward.  Nera is a bold, firm dancer, but, unknown to her, the ribbons in falling have become entangled about her feet; she, is bound, she cannot stir; she gives a little scream.  Nobili, startled, suddenly loosens his hold upon her waist.  Nera totters, extends her arms, then falls heavily backward, her head striking on the parquet floor.  There is a cry of horror.  Every dancer stops.  They gather round her where she lies.  Her face is turned upward, her eyes are set and glassy, her cheeks are ashen.

“Holy Virgin!” cries Nobili, in a voice of anguish, “I have killed her!” He casts himself on the floor beside her—­he raises her in his strong arms.  “Air, air!—­give her air, or she will die!” he cries.

Putting every one aside, he carries Nera to the nearest window, he lays her tenderly on a sofa.  It is the very spot where he had kissed her—­under the fiery shadow of the red curtain.  Alas!  Nobili is sobered now from the passion of that moment.  The glamour has departed with the light of Nera’s eyes.  He is ashamed of himself; but there is a swelling at his heart, nevertheless—­an impulse of infinite compassion toward the girl who lies senseless before him—­her beauty, her undisguised love for him, plead powerfully for her.  Does he love her?

The Countess Boccarini and Nera’s sisters are by her side.  The poor mother at first is speechless; she can only chafe her child’s cold hands, and kiss her white lips.

“Nera, Nera,” at last she whispers, “Nera, speak to me—­speak to me—­one word—­only one word!”

But, alas! there is no sign of animation—­to all appearance Nera is dead.  Nobili, convinced that he alone is responsible, and too much agitated to care what he does, kneels beside her, and places his hand upon her heart.

“She lives! she lives!” he cries—­“her heart beats!  Thank God, I have not killed her!”

This leap from death to life is too much for him; he staggers to his feet, falls into a chair, and sobs aloud.  Nera’s eyelids tremble; she opens her eyes, her lips move.

“Nera, my child, my darling, speak to me!” cries Madame Boccarini.  “Tell me that you can hear me.”

Nera tries to raise her head, but in vain.  It falls back upon the cushion.

“Home, mamma—­home!” her lips feebly whisper.