“Angela!  Angela!”

Falling on his knees he raised the delicate figure in his arms,—­the little head drooped inanimate on his shoulder, and with the movement a coil of golden hair became unbound, and fell in soft waves over his trembling hands—­the fair face was calm and tranquil—­the eyes were closed,—­but as the distracted man clasped that inert, beloved form closer, he saw what caused him to spring erect with a terrible oath, and cry for vengeance.

“Murdered!” he exclaimed hoarsely—­“Murdered!  Brother, come close!—­ see here!  Will you talk to me of God now!  My last comfort in life—­ the last gift of my Gita, murdered!”

The affrighted Cardinal tottered forward, and looking, saw that a deep stain of blood oozed over the soft white garments of the lifeless girl, and he wrung his hands in despair.

“My God!  My God!” he moaned, “In what have we offended Thee that Thou shouldst visit us with such heavy affliction?  Angela, my child!—­my little girl!—­Angela!”

The servants had by this time clustered round, a pale and terrified group, sobbing and crying loudly,—­only the old valet retained sufficient presence of mind to light two or three of the lamps in the studio.  As this was done, and the sudden luminance dispersed some of the darker shadows in the room, the grand picture on the easel was thrown into full prominence,—­and the magnificent Christ, descending in clouds of glory, seemed to start from the painted canvas and move towards them all.  And even while he wrung his hands and wept, the Cardinal’s glance was suddenly caught and transfixed by this splendour,—­he staggered back amazed, and murmured feebly—­ “Angela!  This is her work!—­this her great picture, and she—­she is dead!”

Sovrani suddenly clutched him by the arm, and drew him close to the couch where he had just laid the body of his daughter down.

“Now, where was this God you serve, think you, when this happened?” he demanded, in a hoarse whisper, while his aged eyes glittered feverishly, and his stern dark face under the tossed white hair was as a frowning mask of vengeance,—­“Is the world so rich in sweet women that she should be slain?”

Half paralysed with grief, the unhappy Cardinal sank on his knees beside the murdered girl,—­taking the passive hand he kissed it, the tears flowing down his furrowed cheeks.  Her magnificent picture shone forth, a living presence in the room, but the thoughts of all were for the dead only, and the distracted Sovrani saw nothing but his child’s pale, set face, closed eyes, and delicate figure, lying still with the red stain of blood spreading through the whiteness of her garments.  None of them thought of Manuel—­and it was with a shock of surprise that the Cardinal became aware of him, and saw him approaching the couch, raising his hand as he came, warningly.

“Hush, hush!” he said, very gently, “It may be that she is not dead!  She will be frightened when she wakes if she sees you weeping!”