Then suddenly Kitty sprang forward.

“Give me that lamp!” she said to the young footman behind her.

And in a second she had leaped upon the low wall of the terrace and on the vacant pedestal.  The lad to whom she had spoken lost his head and obeyed her.  He raised the lamp.  She stooped and took it.  Ashe, who was now standing in the open window with his back to the terrace, turned round, saw, and rushed forward.

“Kitty!—­put it down!”

“Lady Kitty!” cried the Dean, in dismay, while all behind him held their breath.

“Stand back!” said Kitty, “or I shall drop it!” She held up the lamp, straight and steady.  Ashe paused—­in an agony of doubt what to do, his whole soul concentrated on the slender arm and on the brightly burning lamp.

“If you make me speeches,” said Kitty, “I must reply, mustn’t I? (Keep back, William!—­I’m all right.) Hebe thanks you, please—­mille fois!  She herself hasn’t been happy—­and she’s afraid she hasn’t been good! N’importe! It’s all done—­and finished.  The play’s over!—­and the lights go out!”

She waved the lamp above her head.

“Kitty! for God’s sake!” cried Ashe, rushing to her.

“She is mad!” said Lord Parham, standing at the back.  “I always knew it!”

The other spectators passed through a second of anguish.  The bright figure on the pedestal wavered; one moment, and it seemed as though the lamp must descend crashing upon the head and neck and the white dress beneath it; the next, it had fallen from Kitty’s hand—­fallen away from her—­wide and safe—­into the depths of the garden below.  A flash of wild light rose from the burning oil and from the dry shrubs amid which it fell.  Kitty, meanwhile, swayed—­and dropped—­heavily—­unconscious—­into William Ashe’s arms.

* * * * *

Kitty barely recovered life and sense during the night that followed.  And while she was still unconscious her boy passed away.  The poor babe, all ignorant of the straits in which his mother lay, was seized with convulsions in the dawn, and gave up his frail life gathered to his father’s breast.

Some ten weeks later, towards the end of October, society knew that the Home Secretary and Lady Kitty had started for Italy—­bound first of all for Venice.  It was said that Lady Kitty was a wreck, and that it was doubtful whether she would ever recover the sudden and tragic death of her only child.

PART IV

STORM

     “Myself, arch-traitor to myself;
     My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe,
     My clog whatever road I go.”

XVII

“’Among the numerous daubs with which Tintoret, to his everlasting shame, has covered this church—­’”

“Good Heavens!—­what does the man mean?—­or is he talking of another church?” said Ashe, raising his head and looking in bewilderment, first at the magnificent Tintoret in front of him, and then at the lines he had just been reading.