“I grant that, sir,” said I.  “It is your business, now that the crown—­with what small profit may go with it—­lies under your hand, to grasp it for Genoa.  But as a soldier and a brave man, you understand that now you must grasp it by force.  God knows in what hope, if in any, the Princess here tracked out your plot; but at least she can compel you—­I can compel you—­we two, weak as we are, can compel you—­to use force.  The honour of a race—­and that a royal one—­shall at least not pass to you on the mere signature of that coward sitting there.”  I swung round upon the Prince.  “You may give up trying to hide those papers, sir, since every one in this room knows what compact you were in the act of signing.”

The Princess stepped forward.  “All this,” she said to me in a low, hard voice, “I could have done without help of you.”  Her tone promised that she would never forgive, but she looked only at her brother.  “Camillo,” she said, standing before him, “this Englishman has said only what I came to say.  It is not my fault that he is here and has guessed.  When I was sure, I hid my knowledge even from Marc’antonio and Stephanu; and he—­he shall die for having overheard.  The Genoese will see to that, and the Commandant, as he is a gentleman, will write in his report that he took the crown from us, having caught us at unawares. . . .  I cannot shoot you, my brother.  Even you would not ask this of me—­of me that have served you, and that serve you now in the end. . . .  See, I make no reproaches. . . .  We were badly brought up, we two, and when you were young and helpless, vile men took hold on you and taught you to be capable of—­of this thing.  But we are Colonne, we two, and can end as Colonne.”  She dipped a hand within the bosom of her bodice and drew out a phial.  “Dear, I will drink after you.  It will not be hard; no, believe me, it will not be so very hard—­a moment, a pang perhaps, and everything will yet be saved.  O brother, what is a pang, a moment, that you can weigh it against a lifetime of dishonour!”

The Prince sprang up cursing.

“Dishonour?  And who are you that talk to me of dishonour?—­you that come straying here out of the night with your cicisbeo at your heels?  You, with the dew on you and your dress bedraggled, arrive straight from companioning in the woods and prate to me of shame—­of the blood of the Colonne!” He smote a hand on the table and spat forth a string of vile names upon her, mixed with curses; abominable words before which she drew back cowering, yet less (I think) from the lash of them than from shock and horror of his incredible baseness.  Passion twisted his mouth; his tongue stammered with the gush of his abuse; but he was lying, and knew that he was lying, for his eyes would meet neither hers nor mine.  Only after drawing breath did he for a moment look straight at her, and then it was to demand; “And who, pray, has driven me to this?  What has made Corsica so bitter