“Verily, for no other reason than that I have a wicked curiosity, and that you come from Rome,” said Laura, now perfectly frank, and believing that she had explained her enigmatical talk, if she had not furnished an excuse for it.  Merthyr came from the City which was now encircled by an irradiating halo in her imagination, and a fit of spontaneous inexplicable feminine tenderness being upon her at the moment of their meeting, she found herself on a sudden prompted to touch and probe and brood voluptuously over an unfortunate lover’s feelings, supposing that they existed.  For the glory of Rome was on him, and she was at the same time angry with Carlo Ammiani.  It was the form of passion her dedicated widowhood could still be subject to in its youth; the sole one.  By this chance Merthyr learnt what nothing else would have told him.

Her tale of the attempted assassination was related with palpable indifference.  She stated the facts.  “The woman seemed to gasp while she had her hand up; she struck with no force; and she has since been inanimate, I hear.  The doctor says that a spasm of the heart seized her when she was about to strike.  It has been shaken—­I am not sure that he does not say displaced, or unseated—­by some one of her black tempers.  She shot Rinaldo Guidascarpi dead.  Perhaps it was that.  I am informed that she worshipped the poor boy, and has been like a trapped she-wolf since she did it.  In some way she associated our darling with Rinaldo’s death, like the brute she is.  The ostensible ground for her futile bit of devilishness was that she fancied Sandra to have betrayed Barto Rizzo, her husband, into the hands of the polizia.  He wrote to the Countess Alessandra—­such a letter!—­a curiosity!—­he must see her and cross-examine her to satisfy himself that she was a true patriot, &c.  You know the style:  we neither of us like it.  Sandra was waiting to receive him when they pounced on him by the door.  Next day the woman struck at her.  Decidedly a handsome woman.  She is the exact contrast to the Countess Violetta in face, in everything.  Heart-disease will certainly never affect that pretty spy!  But, mark,” pursued Laura, warming, “when Carlo arrived, tears, penitence, heaps of self-accusations:  he had been unkind to her even on Lake Orta, where they passed their golden month; he had neglected her at Turin; he had spoken angry words in Milan; in fact, he had misused his treasure, and begged pardon;—­’If you please, my poor bleeding angel, I am sorry.  But do not, I entreat, distract me with petitions of any sort, though I will perform anything earthly to satisfy you.  Be a good little boat in the wake of the big ship.  I will look over at you, and chirrup now and then to you, my dearest, when I am not engaged in piloting extraordinary.’—­Very well; I do not mean to sneer at the unhappy boy, Merthyr; I love him; he was my husband’s brother in arms; the sweetest lad ever seen.  He is in the season