But Nernia, who had before this slipped the bolt aside, and who always kept her grasp upon the great key in the lock, suddenly turned it, pushed the oak door open, and before the elder woman was conscious of what she was doing, had dashed out into the air, and slammed the door behind her.  The rush of wind had blown out the lamp in Clelia Alba’s hand.

When, after fumbling vainly for some minutes to find the door, and bruising her hands against the wall and oaken chair, she at last found it and thrust it open, the night without was moonless and starless and stormy, and in its unillumined blackness she saw no trace of the little girl.  She went out on to the doorstep and listened, but there was no sound.  The wind was high; the perfume of the stocks and wallflowers was strong; far away the sound of the river rushing through the sedges was audible in the intense stillness, an owl hooted, a nightjar sent forth its sweet, strange, sighing note.  Of Nernia there was no trace.  Clelia Alba came within and closed the door, and locked and bolted it.

The old woman Gianna had come downstairs with a lighted rush candle in her hand; she was scared and afraid.

“What is it?  What is it, madama?”

Clelia Alba dropped down on the chair by the door.

“It is —­ it is —­ that the beggar’s spawn you would have me shelter is the leman of my son; and he has dishonoured his house and mine.”

Gianna shook her grey head in solemn denial and disbelief.

“Sior’a, Clelia, do not say such words or think such thoughts of your son or of the child.  She is as harmless as any flower that blows out there in the garden, and he is a noble youth, though now, by the wickedness of me, distraught and off his head.  What makes you revile them so?”

“They are both out this night.  Is not that enough?”

Gianna was distressed; from her chamber above she had heard the words which had passed between Adone’s mother and Nernia, and knew the girl was gone.

“I would condemn others, but not Adone and the child,” she returned.  “For sure they do not do right to have secrets from you, but they are not such secrets as you think.”

“Enough!” said Clelia Alba sternly.  “The morning will show who is right.  It suffices for me that the son of Valeria Albo, my son, has forgot his duty to his mother and his respect for himself.”

Clelia Alba rose with effort from her chair, relighted her lamp at the old woman’s rush candle, and went slowly and heavily up the stairs.  She felt stunned and outraged.  Her son! —­ hers! —­ to lie out of nights with a little nameless vagrant!

Gianna caught hold of her skirt.  “Madama —­ listen.  I saw him born that day by the Edera water, and I have seen him every day of his life since till now.  He would never do a base thing.  Do not you, his mother, disgrace him by thinking of it for an hour.  This thing is odd, is ugly, is strange, but wait to judge it —­”