“It will be all cleared up in the morning,” she answered, trying to speak cheerfully or at least hopefully.  “It is an abominable mistake of the prefect’s.  I will not leave you, dear—­take heart, we will talk—­the nun will bring you something to eat—­the night will soon pass.”

“In prison!” exclaimed Faustina, in a tone of horror and despair, not heeding what Corona said.

“Try and fancy it is not—­”

“And my father dead!” She seemed suddenly to realise that he was gone for ever.  “Poor papa! poor papa!” she moaned.  “Oh, I did not mean to be undutiful—­indeed I did not—­and I can never tell you so now—­”

“You must not reproach yourself, darling,” said Corona, trying to soothe her and to draw the pitiful pale face to her shoulder, while she wound her arm tenderly about the young girl’s waist.  “Pray for him, Faustina, but do not reproach yourself too much.  After all, dear, he was unkind to you—­”

“Oh, do not say that—­he is dead!” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper as she spoke, and an expression of awe came over her features.  “He is dead, Corona.  I shall never see him again—­oh, why did I not love him more?  I am frightened when I think that he is dead—­who did it?”

The question came suddenly, and Faustina started and shuddered.  Corona pressed her to her side and smoothed her hair gently.  She felt that she must say something, but she hardly expected that Faustina would understand reason.  She gathered her energy, however, to make the best effort in her power.

“Listen to me, Faustina,” she said, in a tone of quiet authority, “and try and see all this as I see it.  It is not right that you should reproach yourself, for you have had no share in your father’s death, and if you parted in anger it was his fault, not yours.  He is dead, and there is nothing for you to do but to pray that he may rest in peace.  You have been accused unjustly of a deed which any one might see you were physically incapable of doing.  You will be released from this place to-morrow morning, if not during the night.  One thing is absolutely necessary—­you must be calm and quiet, or you will have brain fever in a few hours.  Do not think I am heartless, dear.  A worse thing might have happened to you.  You have been suspected by an ignorant man who will pay dearly for his mistake; you might have been suspected by those you love.”

Corona sighed, and her voice trembled with the last words.  To her, Faustina was suffering far more from the shock to her sensibilities than from any real grief.  She knew that she had not loved her father, but the horror of his murder and the fright at being held accountable for it were almost enough to drive her mad.  And yet she could not be suffering what Corona had suffered in being suspected by Giovanni, she had not that to lose which Corona had lost, the dominating passion of her life had not been suddenly burnt out in the agony of an hour, she was only the victim of a mistake which could have no consequences, which would leave no trace behind.  But Faustina shivered and turned paler still at Corona’s words.