“A friend of one of the persons just killed.”

“They are dead.  You had better wait till morning and come again,” suggested the porter.

“But I want to be sure that it is my friend who is dead.”

“Then why do you not give your name?  Perhaps you are a Garibaldian.  Why should I open?”

“I will tell the surgeon my name, if you will call him.  There is something for yourself.  Tell him I am a Roman prince and must see him for a moment.”

“I will see if he will come,” said the man, shutting the panel in San Giacinto’s face.  His footsteps echoed along the pavement of the wide hall within.  It was long before he came back, and San Giacinto had leisure to reflect upon the situation.

He had very little doubt but that the dead woman was no other than Donna Faustina.  By a rare chance, or rather in obedience to an irresistible instinct, he had found the object of his search in half an hour, while his cousin was fruitlessly inquiring for the missing girl in the opposite direction.  He had been led to the conclusion that she had followed Gouache by what he had seen in the Saracinesca’s drawing-room, and by a process of reasoning too simple to suggest itself to an ordinary member of Roman society.  What disturbed him most was the thought of the consequences of his discovery, and he resolved to conceal the girl’s name and his own if possible.  If she were indeed dead, it would be wiser to convey her body to her father’s house privately; if she were still alive, secrecy was doubly necessary.  In either case it would be utterly impossible to account to the world for the fact that Faustina Montevarchi had been alone in the Borgo Nuovo at such an hour; and San Giacinto had a lively interest in preserving the good reputation of Casa Montevarchi, since he had been meditating for some time past a union with Donna Flavia.

At last the panel opened again, and when the porter had satisfied himself that the gentleman was still without, a little door in the heavy gate was cautiously unfastened and San Giacinto went in, bending nearly double to pass under the low entrance.  In the great vestibule he was immediately confronted by the surgeon in charge, who was in his shirt sleeves, but had thrown his coat over his shoulders and held it together at the neck to protect himself from the night air.  San Giacinto begged him to retire out of hearing of the porter, and the two walked away together.

“There was a lady killed just now by the explosion, was there not?” inquired San Giacinto.

“She is not dead,” replied the surgeon.  “Do you know her?”

“I think so.  Had she anything about her to prove her identity?”

“The letter M embroidered on her handkerchief.  That is all I know.  She has not been here a quarter of an hour.  I thought she was dead myself, when we took her up.”

“She was not under the ruins?”

“No.  She was struck by some small stone, I fancy.  The two Zouaves were half buried, and are quite dead.”