“I cannot hold the position yet!—­” he said, at last—­“That is to say, I am too numb and stricken with fear to realize what has happened!  See you!  That picture is marvellous!—­a wonder of the world!—­it will crown my girl with all the laurels of a lasting fame,—­but what matter is it to me,—­this shouting of the public,—­ if she dies?  Will it console me for her loss, to call her a Raffaelle?”

“Nay, but we must not give up hope!”—­said the Cardinal soothingly—­ “Please God, you will not lose her!  Be glad that she is not dead,—­ and remember that it is almost by a miracle that she lives!”

“That is true—­that is true!” murmured old Sovrani, ruffling his white hair with one hand, while he still stared abstractedly at his daughter’s picture—­“You are very patient with me, brother!—­you have all the kindness as well as all the faithfulness of your sister,—­the sweetest woman the sun was ever privileged to shine on!  Well, well!  What did you say to me?  That this picture must have been the cause of the attempted murder?  Maybe,—­but the poor hard-working fellow who made the frame for it, could not have done such a deed,—­ he has been a pensioner of Angela’s for many a long day, and she has given him employment when he could not obtain it from others.  Besides, he never saw the picture.  Angela gave him her measurements, and when the frame was finished he brought it to her here.  But he had nothing whatever to do with setting the canvas in it,—­that I know, for Angela herself told me.  No, no!—­let us not blame the innocent; rather let us try to find the guilty.”

At that moment a servant entered with a large and exquisitely arranged basket of lilies-of-the-valley, and a letter.

“For Donna Sovrani,” he said, as he handed both to his master.

The Prince took the basket of lilies, and moved by a sudden fancy, set it gently in front of Angela’s great work.  Glancing at the superscription of the letter, he said,—­

“From Varillo.  I had better open it and see what he says.”

He broke the seal and read the following: 

“Sweetest Angela,—­I am summoned to Naples on business, and therefore, to my infinite regret, shall not be able to see the great picture to-morrow.  You know,—­you can feel how sorry I am to disappoint both you and myself in a pleasure which we have so long lovingly anticipated, but as the Queen has promised to make her visit of inspection, I dare not ask you to put off the exhibition of your work till my return.  But I know I shall come back to find my Angela crowned with glory, and it will be reserved for me to add the last laurel leaf to the immortal wreath!  I am grieved that I have no time to come and press my ‘addio’ on your sweet lips,—­but in two or three days at most, I shall be again at your feet.  Un bacio di

Florian.”

“Then he has left for Naples?” said Bonpre, to whom Prince Pietro had read this letter—­“A sudden departure, is it not?”