“If you will permit me, princess, I will go with you,” said the latter as they all reached the carriage.  “I may be of some use.”

Just as they rolled out of the deep archway, the explosion of the barracks rent the air, the tremendous crash thundering and echoing through the city.  The panes of the carriage-windows rattled as though they would break, and all Rome was silent while one might count a score.  Then the horses plunged wildly in the traces and the vehicle struck heavily against one of the stone pillars which stood before the entrance of the palace.  The four persons inside could hear the coachman shouting.

“Drive on!” cried San Giacinto, thrusting his head out of the window.

“Eccellenza—­” began the man in a tone of expostulation.

“Drive on!” shouted San Giacinto, in a voice that made the fellow obey in spite of his terror.  He had never heard such a voice before, so deep, so strong and so savage.

They reached the Palazzo Montevarchi without encountering any serious obstacle.  In a few minutes they were convinced that Donna Faustina had not been heard of there, and a council was held upon the stairs.  Whilst they were deliberating, Prince Montevarchi came out, and with him his eldest son, Bellegra, a handsome man about thirty years old, with blue eyes and a perfectly smooth fair beard.  He was more calm than his father, who spoke excitedly, with many gesticulations.

“You have lost Faustina!” cried the old man in wild tones.  “You have lost Faustina!  And in such times as these!  Why do you stand there?  Oh, my daughter! my daughter!  I have so often told you to be careful, Guendalina—­move, in the name of God—­the child is lost, lost, I tell you!  Have you no heart? no feeling?  Are you a mother?  Signori miei, I am desperate!”

And indeed he seemed to be, as he stood wringing his hands, stamping his feet, and vociferating incoherently, while the tears began to flow down his cheeks.

“We are going in search of your daughter,” said Sant’ Ilario.  “Pray calm yourself.  She will certainly be found.”

“Perhaps I had better go too,” suggested Ascanio Bellegra, rather timidly.  But his father threw his arms round him and held him tightly.

“Do you think I will lose another child?” he cried.  “No, no, no—­ figlio mio—­you shall never go out into the midst of a revolution.”

Sant’ Ilario looked on gravely, though he inwardly despised the poor old man for his weakness.  San Giacinto stood against the wall, waiting, with, a grim smile of amusement on his face.  He was measuring Ascanio Bellegra with his eye and thought he would not care for his assistance.  The princess looked scornfully at her husband and son.

“We are losing time,” said Sant’ Ilario at last to his cousin.  “I promise you to bring you your daughter,” he added gravely, turning to the princess.  Then the two went away together, leaving Prince Montevarchi still lamenting himself to his wife and son.  Flavia had taken no part in the conversation, having entered the hall and gone to her room at once.