d take no concern for me."

Vincenzo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features
wore an expression of obstinacy.

"The eccellenza must pardon me," he said, "but I have just looked at
death, and my taste is spoiled for carnival. Again--the eccellenza is
sad--it is necessary that I should accompany him to Avellino."

I saw that his mind was made up, and I was in no humor for argument.

"As you will," I answered, wearily, "only believe me, you make a
foolish decision. But do what you like; only arrange all so that we
leave to-night. And now get back quickly--give no explanation at the
hotel of what has occurred, and lose no time in sending on my carriage.
I will wait alone at the Villa Romani till it comes."

The vehicle rumbled off, bearing Vincenzo seated on the box beside the
driver. I watched it disappear, and then turned into the road that led
me to my own dishonored home. The place looked silent and deserted--not
a soul was stirring. The silken blinds of the reception-rooms were all
closely drawn, showing that the mistress of the house was absent; it
was as if some one lay dead within. A vague wonderment arose in my
mind. WHO was dead? Surely it must be I--I the master of the household,
who lay stiff and cold in one of those curtained rooms! This terrible
white-haired man who roamed feverishly up and down outside the walls
was not me--it was some angry demon risen from the grave to wreak
punishment on the guilty. _I_ was dead--_I_ could never have killed the
man who had once been my friend. And he also was dead--the same
murderess had slain us both--and SHE lived! Ha! that was wrong--she
must now die--but in such torture that her very soul shall shrink and
shrivel under it into a devil's flame for the furnace of hell!

With my brain full of hot whirling thoughts like these I looked through
the carved heraldic work of the villa gates. Here had Guido stood, poor
wretch, last night, shaking these twisted wreaths of iron in impotent
fury. There on the mosaic pavement he had flung the trembling old
servant who had told him of the absence of his traitress. On this very
spot he had launched his curse, which, though he knew it not, was the
curse of a dying man. I was glad he had uttered it--such maledictions
cling! There was nothing but compassion for him in my heart now that he
was dead. He had been duped and wronged even as I; and I felt that his
spirit, released from its grosser clay, would work with