At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last.  But it was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of his ancestors—­and childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers.  Just as the windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revived by the motion of his arm.  And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat.

Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain—­Lilia dying some months back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his mother at home, now reading evening prayers to the servants.  He felt that he was growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great.  Not all Gino’s care could indefinitely postpone the end.  His yells and gurgles became mechanical—­functions of the tortured flesh rather than true notes of indignation and despair.  He was conscious of a horrid tumbling.  Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was quiet at last.

“But your son is dead, Gino.  Your son is dead, dear Gino.  Your son is dead.”

The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders, holding him down in a chair.  She was exhausted with the struggle, and her arms were trembling.

“What is the good of another death?  What is the good of more pain?”

He too began to tremble.  Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove.  Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly.  He gave a loud and curious cry—­a cry of interrogation it might be called.  Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby’s milk.

“Go to him,” said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip.  “Pick him up.  Treat him kindly.”

She released him, and he approached Philip slowly.  His eyes were filling with trouble.  He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up.

“Help! help!” moaned Philip.  His body had suffered too much from Gino.  It could not bear to be touched by him.

Gino seemed to understand.  He stopped, crouched above him.  Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.

“Oh, the foul devil!” he murmured.  “Kill him!  Kill him for me.”

Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face.  Then she said gravely to them both, “This thing stops here.”

“Latte! latte!” cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs.

“Remember,” she continued, “there is to be no revenge.  I will have no more intentional evil.  We are not to fight with each other any more.”

“I shall never forgive him,” sighed Philip.

“Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!”
Perfetta came in with another lamp and a little jug.

Gino spoke for the first time.  “Put the milk on the table,” he said.  “It will not be wanted in the other room.”  The peril was over at last.  A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and clung to her.