ke a visible hand upon Count Ammiani,
that he might know it to be nothing else than Carlo's work. He sat in
darkness in the room where Carlo had spoken, thinking of him as living
and dead. The brilliant life in Carlo protested against a possible fatal
tendency in his acts so irrevocable as to plunge him to destruction when
his head was clear, his blood cool, and a choice lay open to him. That
brilliant young life, that fine face, the tones of Carlo's voice, swept
about Merthyr, accusing him of stupid fatalism. Grief stopped his answer
to the charge; but in his wise mind he knew Carlo to have surveyed things
justly; and that the Fates are within us. Those which are the forces of
the outer world are as shadows to the power we have created within us. He
felt this because it was his gathered wisdom. Human compassion, and love
for the unhappy youth, crushed it in his heart, and he marvelled how he
could have been paralyzed when he had a chance of interceding. Can a man
stay a torrent? But a noble and fair young life in peril will not allow
our philosophy to liken it to things of nature. The downward course of a
fall that takes many waters till it rushes irresistibly is not the course
of any life. Yet it is true that our destiny is of our own weaving.
Carlo's involvements cast him into extreme peril, almost certain death,
unless he abjured his honour, dearer than a life made precious by love.
Merthyr saw that it was not vanity, but honour; for Carlo stood pledged
to lead a forlorn enterprise, the ripeness of his own scheming. In the
imminent hour Carlo had recognized his position as Merthyr with the
wisdom of years looked on it. That was what had paralyzed the older man,
though he could not subsequently trace the cause. Thinking of the beauty
of the youth, husband of the woman who was to his soul utterly an angel,
Merthyr sat in the anguish of self-accusation, believing that some
remonstrance, some inspired word, might have turned him, and half
dreading to sound his own heart, as if an evil knowledge of his nature
haunted it.

He rose up at last with a cry. The door opened, and Giacinta, Vittoria's
maid, appeared, bearing a lamp. She had been sitting outside, waiting to
hear him stir before she intruded. He touched her cheek kindly, and
thought that one could do little better than die, if need were, in the
service of such a people. She said that her mistress was kneeling. She
wished to make coffee for him, and Merthyr let her