To my amazement the wretched youth drew himself up, his cowardice gone, his face twisted with sudden venomous passion.

“You?  You will protect me?  Dog, I can die, but not owe that!”

I leapt forward, disregarding him, seeing that Marc’antonio’s hand was lifted, and that in it a dagger glittered.  But before I could leap the Prince had snatched one of the steel rods from the brazier—­ a charcoal rake.  And as I struck up Marc’antonio’s arm, the rake crashed down on my skull, tearing the scalp with its white-hot teeth.

I staggered back with both hands held to my head.  I did not see the stroke itself; but between my spread fingers I saw the Prince sink to the floor with the handle of Marc’antonio’s dagger between his shoulder-blades.  I saw the blood gush from his mouth.  And with that I heard scream after scream from the doorway where Bianca stood swaying, and shouts from the garden answering her screams.

“Foolish girl!” said Marc’antonio, quietly.  “And yet, perhaps, so best!”

He stepped over the Prince’s body, and taking me by both shoulders, hurried me through the room where the priest hung, and forth into the vestibule.  Stephanu did the same with Bianca, halting on his way to catch up the crown and wrap it carefully in the girl’s cloak.  At the garden gate he thrust the bundle into my hands, even as Marc’antonio pushed us both into the lane.

Outside the door I caught at the wall and drew breath, blinking while the hot blood ran over my eyes.  I looked for them to follow and help me, for I needed help.  But the door was closed softly behind us, and a moment later I heard their footsteps as they ran back along the vestibule, back towards the shouting voices; then, after a long silence, a shot; then a loud cry, “CORSICA!” and another shot.

“They have killed him?”

I turned feebly to Bianca; but Bianca had not spoken.  She leaned, dumb with fright, against the wall of the alleyway, and stared at the Princess, who faced us, panting, in the whirls of snow.

“I tried”—­it was my own voice saying this—­“yes, indeed, I tried to save him.  He would not, and they killed him . . . and now they also are killed.”

“Yes—­yes, I heard them.”  She peered close.  “Can you walk?  Try to think it is a little way; for it is most necessary you should walk.”

I had not the smallest notion whether I could walk or not.  It appeared more important that my head was being eaten with red-hot teeth.  But she took my arm and led me.

“Go before us, foolish girl, and make less noise,” she commanded the sobbing Bianca.

“But you must try for my sake,” she whispered, “to think it but a little way.”

And I must have done so with success; for of the way through the streets I remember nothing but the end—­a light shining down the passage of Messer’ Fazio’s house, a mandolin still tinkling over the archway behind us, and a door opening upon a company seated at table, the faces of all—­and of Mr. Fett especially—­very distinct under the lamp-light.  They rose—­it seemed, all at once—­to welcome us, and their faces wavered as they rose.