Marzio was startled by the sight and the sound, and then, seeing what had happened, he was very much frightened.  He knelt down beside his daughter’s prostrate body and bent over her face.  He raised her up in his long, nervous arms, and lifted her to the old chair till she sat upon it, and he supported her head and body, kneeling on the floor beside her.  A sharp pain shot through his heart, the faint indication of a love not wholly extinguished.

“Lucia, dear Lucia!” he said, in a voice so tender that it sounded strangely in his own ears.  But the gill gave no sign.  Her head would have fallen forward if he had not supported it with his hands.

“My daughter!  Little Lucia!  You are not dead—­tell me you are not dead!” he cried.  In his fright and sudden affection he pressed his lips to her face, kissing her again and again.  “I did not mean to hurt you, darling child,” he repeated, as though she could hear him speak.

At last her eyes opened.  A shiver ran through her body and she raised her head.  She was very pale as she leaned back in the chair.  Marzio took her hands and robbed them between his dark fingers, still looking into her eyes.

“Ah!” she gasped, “I thought I was dead.”  Then, as Marzio seemed about to speak, she added faintly:  “Don’t say it again!”

“Lucia—­dear Lucia!  I knew you were not dead I knew you would come back to me,” he said, still in very tender tones.  “Forgive me, child—­I did not mean to hurt you.”

“No?  Oh, papa!  Then why did you say it?” she cried, suddenly bursting into tears and weeping upon his shoulder.  “Tell me it is not true—­tell me so!” she sobbed.

Marzio was almost as much disconcerted by Lucia’s return to consciousness as he had been by her fainting away.  His nature had unbent, momentarily, under the influence of his strong fear for his daughter’s life.  Now that she had recovered so quickly, he remembered Gianbattista’s violence and scornful words, and he seemed to feel the young man’s strong hand upon his mouth, stifling his speech.  He hesitated, rose to his feet, and began to pace the floor.  Lucia watched him with intense anxiety.  There was a conflict in his mind between the resentment which was not half an hour old, and the love for his child, which had been so quickly roused during the last five minutes.

“Well—­Lucia, my dear—­I do not know—­” he stopped short in his walk and looked at her.  She leaned forward as though to catch his words.

“Do you think you could not—­that you would be so very unhappy, I mean, if he lived out of the house—­I mean to say, if he had lodgings, somewhere, and came back to work?”

“Oh, papa—­I should faint away again—­and I should die.  I am quite sure of it.”