By the window stood Heliodora.  The bright radiance of the sinking sun bathed her slender but round and graceful form, her “imploring” eyes looked up at him with rapturous delight, and her white arms folded across her bosom gave her the aspect of a saint, waiting with humble longing for some miracle, in expectation of unutterable joys.

Martina’s eyes, too, were fixed on Orion; she saw how pale he turned at seeing the young widow, she saw him start as though suddenly overcome by some emotion—­what, she could not guess—­and shrink back from the sunlit vision in the window.  These were effects which the worthy matron had not anticipated.

Never off the stage, thought she, had she seen a man so stricken by love; for she could not suspect that to him it was as though a gulf had suddenly yawned at his feet.

With a swiftness which no one could have looked for from her heavy and bulky figure, Martina hastily returned to her husband, and even at the door exclaimed:  “It is all right, all has gone well!  At the sight of her he seemed thunderstruck!  Mark my words:  we shall have a wedding here by the Nile.”

“My blessing on it,” replied Justinus.  “But, wedding or no wedding, all I care is that she should persuade that fine young fellow to give up his crazy scheme.  I saw how even the brown rascals in the Arab’s service bowed down before him; and he will persuade the general, if any one can, to do all in his power for Narses.  He must not and shall not go!  You impressed it strongly on Heliodora. . . .”

“That she should keep him?” laughed the matron.  “I tell you, she will nail him down if need be.”

“So much the better,” replied her husband.  “But, wife, folks might say that it was not quite seemly in you to force them together.  Properly speaking, you are as it were her female mentor, the motherly patroness.”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Martina.  “At home they invited no witnesses to look on at their meetings.  The poor love-lorn souls must at any rate have a chance of speaking to each other and rejoicing that they have met once more.  I will step in presently, and be the anxious, motherly friend.  Tine, Tine!  And if it does not end in a wedding, I will make a pilgrimage to St. Agatha, barefoot.”

“And I with only one shoe!” the senator declared, “for, everything in reason—­but the talk about Dora was at last beyond all bounds.  It was no longer possible to have them both together under the same roof.  And you yourself—­no, seriously; go in to them.”

“Directly, directly.—­But first look out of this window once more.  Oh, what a sun!—­there, now it is too late.  Only two minutes ago the whole heaven was of the hue of my red Syrian cloak; and now it is all dark!—­The house and garden are beautiful, and everything is old and handsome; just what I should have expected in the home of the rich Mukaukas.”

“And I too,” replied Justinus.  “But now, go.  If they have come to an understanding, Dora may certainly congratulate herself.”