But a new fear assailed Nina.  “You cannot go back!  The duke will kill you!  He would do anything, that man!”

There was pride in Giovanni’s easy answer.  “He is not very agile,” he laughed; “to stab he would have first to reach me!” Then seriously and very gently he added, “You are overstrung and nervous, Mademoiselle.  On my honor I promise you need never fear him again.”

“What do you mean by that?” Startled, she put the question.

“Nothing,” he rejoined lightly, “only that a man never repeats a performance like that of the duke.  The Italian custom prevents!” he added, with a curious expression of whimsicality over which Nina puzzled as she mounted the stairs to her room.  Even in her shaken state, she marveled at the contrast between Giovanni’s finely chiseled features and the elastic strength that must have been necessary to overpower the bull force of the duke.  She thought gratefully of the sympathy in his gentle voice, as well as in his whole manner during the ten minutes which were all that had elapsed since the duchess left her.  She realized with what perfect tact and perception he had treated her on the way home.  And suddenly her heart went out to him.  She felt now, as she went through the long stone corridors and galleries toward her room, that instead of drawing away from him, were he at that moment beside her, she might easily sob her emotions all peacefully out in his arms.

* * * * *

In the meantime Giovanni returned to the Palazzo Scorpa and, ascending the main stairway, entered the antechamber of the reception room.  The old duchess was hovering anxiously at the entrance of the rooms leading to the picture gallery, the closed portieres screening her from the guests to whom she had not dared to return without Nina.  The rugs laid upon the marble floors dulled all sound of Giovanni’s footfalls, so that he appeared without warning, and with his own hand hastily lifted the portiere, disclosing her to her waiting guests.  She had no choice but to precede him, doubtless framing an excuse for Nina’s absence.  If so, she need not have troubled, for Giovanni spoke in her stead, and with such distinct enunciation that the whole roomful heard: 

“Miss Randolph felt suddenly ill and asked to go home.  I came just as the carriage was disappearing, and found the duchess much disturbed over it, though I assured her it was quite usual for young girls to go about alone in America.”

His look at the duchess demanded that she corroborate his account.

“It was too bad,” she said, glibly enough.  “I should have accompanied her as I was, without hat or mantle even, but Miss Randolph was gone before I really had time to think.  It is, after all, but a step to the Palazzo Sansevero.”

Eleanor Sansevero arose.  Through a perfect control and sweetness of manner the most careless observer might have read displeasure.  “Of course,” she said, enunciating each word with smoothly modulated distinctness, “in America there could be no impropriety in a young girl’s driving alone, but I am sorry you did not send for me.  Your son left the room at the same time—­he has not returned.”