A little before dawn Vittoria came down to the carriage.  Count Karl stood at the door to hand her in.  He was young and handsome, with a soft flowing blonde moustache and pleasant eyes, a contrast to his brother Count Lenkenstein.  He repeated his thanks to her, which Pericles had not delivered; he informed her that she was by no means a prisoner, and was simply under the guardianship of friends—­“though perhaps, signorina, you will not esteem this gentleman to be one of your friends.”  He pointed to Weisspriess.  The officer bowed, but kept aloof.  Vittoria perceived a singular change in him:  he had become pale and sedate.  “Poor fellow! he has had his dose,” Count Karl said.  “He is, I beg to assure you, one of your most vehement admirers.”

A piece of her property that flushed her with recollections, yet made her grateful, was presently handed to her, though not in her old enemy’s presence, by a soldier.  It was the silver-hilted dagger, Carlo’s precious gift, of which Weisspriess had taken possession in the mountain-pass over the vale of Meran, when he fought the duel with Angelo.  Whether intended as a peace-offering, or as a simple restitution, it helped Vittoria to believe that Weisspriess was no longer the man he had been.

The march was ready, but Barto Rizzo’s wife refused to move a foot.  The officers consulted.  She, was brought before them.  The soldiers swore with jesting oaths that she had been carefully searched for weapons, and only wanted a whipping.  “She must have it,” said Weisspriess.  Vittoria entreated that she might have a place beside her in the carriage.  “It is more than I would have asked of you; but if you are not afraid of her,” said Count Karl, with an apologetic shrug.

Her heart beat fast when she found herself alone with the terrible woman.

Till then she had never seen a tragic face.  Compared with this tawny colourlessness, this evil brow, this shut mouth, Laura, even on the battle-field, looked harmless.  It was like the face of a dead savage.  The eyeballs were full on Vittoria, as if they dashed at an obstacle, not embraced an image.  In proportion as they seemed to widen about her, Vittoria shrank.  The whole woman was blood to her gaze.

When she was capable of speaking, she said entreatingly: 

“I knew his brother.”

Not a sign of life was given in reply.

Companionship with this ghost of broad daylight made the flattering
Tyrolese feathers at both windows a welcome sight.

Precautions had been taken to bind the woman’s arms.  Vittoria offered to loosen the cords, but she dared not touch her without a mark of assent.

“I know Angelo Guidascarpi, Rinaldo’s brother,” she spoke again.

The woman’s nostrils bent inward, as when the breath we draw is keen as a sword to the heart.  Vittoria was compelled to look away from her.