and Giovanni were on horseback.  She was sitting in a most precarious position on the horse’s shoulder, but was held securely by Giovanni’s arm around her waist.  Behind them she heard the pounding of many horses in pursuit.  The whole dream had the underlying terror of a nightmare, and just as the distance diminished, and they were nearly caught, the ground gave way and they pitched over a precipice.  As they were falling and about to be dashed on the rocks at the bottom of the ravine, she heard a woman’s laugh, and recognized it as that of the Contessa Maria Potensi.

She awoke, trembling, and lit her lamp.  It was nearly four o’clock, and she had slept but half an hour.  Near her bed was an American magazine; she read the advertisements, to fill her mind with thoughts commonplace and practical enough to banish dreams.  The sun was rising when at last she fell asleep, and she did not awake until nearly noon.

The morning’s mail brought her a letter from John Derby—­a good letter, simple and frank, like himself, full of enthusiasm and of plans for making the “Little Devil” a model settlement.  He would arrive in Rome, he told her, within a week.  But even John’s letter gave her only a few moments’ relief from her distressing memories.

Knowing that she had to pay visits with her aunt again that afternoon, she put on her hat before lunch, in the hope of securing an opportunity to speak with Giovanni while waiting for Eleanor, who always dressed after luncheon.  When she was nearly ready to go down, Celeste answered a knock at the door, but, instead of delivering a package or message, disappeared.  After at least five minutes she returned, and, with a noticeable air of mystery, locked the door, and then gave Nina a letter.  “I was told to give this into Mademoiselle’s hands, without letting any one know,” she said.

Nina felt an undefined misgiving as she tore open the envelope.  Though she had never seen Giovanni’s handwriting, she had no doubt that it was his.  It looked as though it might not be very legible at best; but on the sheet before her the shaking, uneven letters trailed off into such filiform indistinctness that she had to go through it several times before she could decipher the following, written in French: 

“Mademoiselle, I understand you well enough to be sure that you will ask for the truth at all costs, but in giving it to you, I also depend upon your honor to divulge to no one, not even Eleanor, what I tell you:  I fought Scorpa this morning and have sustained a bullet wound in the arm.  Unfortunately, it was impossible to hide, as the bone is broken and it had to be put in plaster.  Scorpa’s condition is, I am told, serious.  If it goes badly, I shall have to leave the country, though I doubt if he allows the real cause to be known.  I rely upon your discretion as completely as you may rely upon my having avenged an insult offered to the purest and noblest of women.

“I beg you to believe, Mademoiselle, in the
respectful devotion of the humblest of your
servants.