She already loved Anastase intensely.  Under the circumstances of his farewell, the startling effect of the announcement of a revolution, the necessity under which, as a soldier, he found himself of leaving her instantly in order to face a real danger, with his first kiss warm upon her lips, and with the frightful conviction that if he left her it might be the last—­under all the emotions brought about by these things, half mad with love and anxiety, it was not altogether wonderful that she acted as she did.  She could not have explained it, for the impulse was so instinctive that she did not comprehend it, and the deed followed so quickly upon the thought that there was no time for reflection.  She fled from the room and from the palace, out into the street, wholly unconscious of danger, like a creature in a dream.

The crowd which had impeded Gouache’s progress was already thinning when Faustina reached the pavement.  She was born and bred in Rome, and as a child, before the convent days, had been taken to walk many a time in the neighbourhood of Saint Peter’s.  She knew well enough where the Serristori barracks were situated, and turned at once towards Sant’ Angelo.  There were still many people about, most of them either hurrying in the direction whence the departing uproar still proceeded, or running homewards to get out of danger.  Few noticed her, and for some time no one hindered her progress, though it was a strange sight to see a fair young girl, dressed in the fashion of the time which so completely distinguished her from Roman women of lower station, running at breathless speed through the dusky streets.

Suddenly she lost her way.  Coming down the Via de’ Coronari she turned too soon to the right and found herself in the confusing byways which form a small labyrinth around the church of San Salvatore in Lauro.  She had entered a blind alley on the left when she ran against two men, who unexpectedly emerged from one of those underground wine-shops which are numerous in that neighbourhood.  They were talking in low and earnest tones, and one of them staggered backward as the young girl rushed upon him in the dark.  Instinctively the man grasped her and held her tightly by the arms.

“Where are you running to, my beauty?” he asked, as she struggled to get away.

“Oh, let me go! let me go!” she cried in agonised tones, twisting her slender wrists in his firm grip.  The other man stood by, watching the scene.

“Better let her go, Peppino,” he said.  “Don’t you see she is a lady?”

“A lady, eh?” echoed the other.  “Where are you going to, with that angel’s face?”

“To the Serristori barrack,” answered Faustina, still struggling with all her might.

At this announcement both men laughed loudly and glanced quickly at each other.  They seemed to think the answer a very good joke.

“If that is all, you may go, and the devil accompany you.  What say you, Gaetano?” Then they laughed again.