them, but I have learned it.  They have no more secrets that I do not know.  Everything the admirable companion does that makes the dear patient better is wrong, and everything that used to make him worse was right.  They were killing you in Paris, they wanted you to stay there until you were dead.  Do you know who saved your life?  It was the Contessa, when I heard her say that you were looking ill!  If you ever see her again, thank her, for I was blind and she opened my eyes.  The devil had blinded me, and the pleasure, and I could not see.  I see now, thanks to heaven, and I know all, and they shall not hurt you.  But they shall pay!”

She was not laughing now, as she said the last words under her breath, and her beautiful lips just showed her white teeth, set savagely tight as though they had bitten through something that could be killed.  Folco Corbario was not timid, but if he had seen her then, and known that the imaginary bite was meant for his life, he would have taken special care of his bodily safety whenever she was in his neighbourhood.

Marcello had listened in profound surprise, for what she said threw new light on all he had thought out for himself of late.

“And you say that Folco is thinking of marrying again,” he said, almost ashamed to profit by information obtained as Regina had got it.

“Yes, he is in love with a young girl, and wishes to marry her.”

Marcello said nothing.

“Should you like to know her name?” asked Regina.

Still Marcello was silent, as if refusing to answer, and yet wishing that she should go on.

“I will tell you,” Regina said.  “Her name is Aurora dell’ Armi.”

Marcello started, and looked into her face, doubting her word for the first time.  He changed colour, too, flushing and then turning pale.

“It is not true!” he cried, rather hoarsely.  “It cannot be true!”

“It is true,” Regina answered, “but she will not have him.  She would not marry him, even if her mother would allow it.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Marcello fervently.

Regina sighed, and turned away.

CHAPTER XV

Ercole sat on the stone seat that ran along the wall of the inn, facing the dusty road.  He was waiting in the cool dawn until it should please the innkeeper to open the door, and Nino crouched beside him, his head resting on his forepaws.

A great many years had passed since Ercole had sat there the last time, but nothing had changed, so far as he could see.  He had been young, and the women had called him handsome; his face had not been shrivelled to parchment by the fever, and there had been no grey threads in his thick black hair.  Nino had not been born then, and now Nino seemed to be a part of himself.  Nino’s grandam had lain in almost the same spot then, wolfish and hungry as her descendant was now, and only a trifle less uncannily hideous.  It was all very much the same, but between that time and this there lay all Ercole’s life by the Roman shore.