My eyes turned again to the work-table.  On it, among the tools, rested a crown—­the crown of Corsica!  Nay, there were two—­two crowns of Corsica! . . .  In what new art of treachery had the man been surprised?  Treachery to Genoa, on top of treachery to Corsica. . . .  The crowns were surprisingly alike, even to the stones around the band—­and I bethought me of the jeweller I had met in the alley.  But, feeling around the rim of each, I recognized the true one by a dent it had taken against the Gauntlet’s ballast.  Quick as thought, then, I whipped it under my arm, ran back to Bianca, and thrust it under her cloak as I bent over her.

She lay in a cold swoon.  I could not leave her in this horrible place. . . .

I was lifting her to carry her out into the alley, when—­in the workshop or beyond it—­a key grated in a lock; and I raised myself erect as the Prince Camillo came through the pavilion, humming a careless tune of opera.

“Hola!” he broke off and called, “Hola, padre, where the devil are you hiding?  And where’s the pretty Bianca? . . .  O, confusion seize your puss-in-the-corner!  I shall be jealous, I tell you—­and br-r-h! what a mistral of a draught!”

He came into the room rubbing his hands, half scolding, half laughing, with the drops of melted snow yet shining on his furred robe from his walk across the garden.  I saw him halt on the threshold and look about him, prepared to call “Hola!” once again.  I saw his eyes fall on the corpse dangling from the chandelier, fix themselves on it, and slowly freeze.  I saw him take one tottering step forward; and then, from an alcove, Marc’antonio and Stephanu stepped quietly out and posted themselves between him and retreat.

“It will be best done quietly,” said Marc’antonio.  “The Cavalier, there”—­he pointed to me—­“has the true crown, and will carry it to good keeping.  You will pardon us, O Cavalier, that we were forced to tell the Princess an untruth this evening; but right is right, and we could not permit her to interfere.”

In all my life I have never seen such a face as the Prince turned upon us, knowing that he must die.  The face grinning from the chandelier was scarcely less horrible.

He put up a hand to it.  “Not here!” he managed to say.  “In the next room—­not here!”

“As your highness wishes.”  Marc’antonio let him pass into the workshop and he stood before the brazier, stretching out his palms as though to warm them.

“These!” he whispered hoarsely, pointing to the instruments on the brazier.

“Your Highness misunderstands.  We are not torturers, we of the Colonne,” answered Marc’antonio, gravely.

A clock on the mantelpiece tinkled out the hour of nine.

“No, nor shall be murderers,” I interposed.  “The Princess is yet your mistress, O Marc’antonio, and I am her husband.  In the Princess’s name I command you both that you do not harm him.”