I had hardly reached the water landing of my canal ten minutes later when I caught sight of her, coming directly toward me, head up, her lips tight-set, her black shawl curving and floating with every movement of her body—­(nothing so wonderfully graceful and nothing so expressive of the wearer’s moods as these black shawls of the Venetians).  She wore her gala dress—­the one in which she was married—­white muslin with ribbons of scarlet, her wonderful hair in a heap above her forehead, her long gold earrings glinting in the sunshine.  All the lovelight had died out of her eyes.  In its place were two deep hollows rimmed about by dark lines, from out which flashed two points of cold steel light.

I sprang from my gondola and held out my hand: 

“Sit down, Loretta, and let me talk to you.”

She stopped, looked at me in a dazed sort of way, as if she was trying to focus my face so as to recall me to her memory, and said in a determined way: 

“No, let me pass.  It’s too late for all that, Signore.  I am—­”

“But wait until you hear me.”

“I will hear nothing until I find Francesco.”

“You must not go near him.  Get into the gondola and let Luigi and me take you home.”

A dry laugh rose to her lips.  “Home!  There is no home any more.  See!  My ring is gone!  Francesco is the one I want—­now—–­now!  He knows I am coming,—­I sent him word.  Don’t hold me, Signore, —­don’t touch me!”

She was gone before I could stop her, her long, striding walk increasing almost to a run, her black shawl swaying about her limbs as she hurried toward her old home at the end of the quay.  Luigi started after her, but I called him back.  Nothing could be done until her fury, or her agony, had spent itself.  These volcanoes are often short-lived.  We looked after her until she had reached the door and had flung herself across the threshold.  Then I sent Luigi for my easel and began work.

The events that have made the greatest impression upon me all my life have been those which have dropped out of the sky,—­the unexpected, the incomprehensible, —­the unnecessary—­the fool things—­the damnably idiotic things.

First we heard a cry that caused Luigi to drop canvas and easel, and sent us both flying down the quay toward the rookery.  It came from Loretta’s mother;—­she was out on the sidewalk tearing her hair; calling on God; uttering shriek after shriek.  The quay and bridge were a mass of people—­some looking with staring eyes, the children hugging their mothers’ skirts.  Two brawny fishermen were clearing the way to the door.  Luigi and I sprang in behind them, and entered the house.

On the stone floor of the room lay the body of Francesco, his head stretched back, one hand clutching the bosom of his shirt.  Against the wall stood Loretta; not a quiver on her lips; ghastly white; calm,—­the least excited person in the room.