The great clock over the stables struck eleven, then the quarter, then half-past.  The familiar chimes floated in through the open windows.

A wild hope came with the sound.  Marcello, weak as he was, had died under ether, and that was the end.  Corbario trembled from head to foot.  The clock struck the third quarter, but no other sound broke the stillness of the near noon-tide.  Yes, Marcello must be dead.

Suddenly, in the silence, came the sharp buzz of the instrument.  He leapt in his seat as if something had struck him unawares, and then, instantly controlling himself, he grasped the receiver and held it to his ear.

“Signor Corbario?” came the question.

“Yes, himself.”

“The hospital.  The operation has been successful.  Do you hear?”

“Yes.  Go on.”

“The patient has come to himself.  He remembers everything.”

“Everything!” Corbario’s voice shook.

“He is Marcello Consalvi.  He asks for his mother, and for you.”

“How—­in what way does he ask for me?  Will my presence do him good—­or excite him?”

The moment had come, and Folco’s nerve was restored with the sense of danger.  His face grew cold and expressionless as he waited for the answer.

“He speaks most affectionately of you.  But you had better not come until this afternoon, and then you must not stay long.  The doctors say he must rest quietly.”

“I will come at four o’clock.  Thank you.  Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

The click of the instrument, as Folco hung the receiver on the hook, and it was over.  He shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair, his arms hanging by his sides as if there were no strength in them, and his head falling forward till his chin rested on his chest.  He remained so for a long time without moving.

But in the room at the hospital Marcello lay in bed with his head bound up, his cheek on the pillow, and his eyes fixed on Regina’s face, as she knelt beside him and fanned him slowly, for it was hot.

“Sleep, heart of my heart,” she said softly.  “Sleep and rest!”

There was a sort of peaceful wonder in his look now.  Nothing vacant, nothing that lacked meaning or understanding.  But he did not answer her, he only gazed into her face, and gazed and gazed till his eyelids drooped and he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

CHAPTER IX

Two years had passed since Marcello had been brought home from the hospital, very feeble still, but himself again and master of his memory and thoughts.

In his recollection, however, there was a blank.  He had left Aurora standing in the gap, where the storm swept inland from the sea; then the light had gone out suddenly, in something violent which he could not understand, and after that he could remember nothing except that he had wandered in lonely places, trying to find out which way he was going, and terrified by the certainty that he had lost all sense of direction; so he had wandered on by day and night, as in a dark dream, and had at last fallen asleep, to wake in the wretched garret of the inn on the Frascati road, with Regina kneeling beside him and moistening his lips from a glass of water.