though the blood would burst through the skin. She put up her hand to
the velvet ribbon which she wore round her neck, and her fingers pulled
awkwardly, impatiently, impotently at it. She felt as if her eyeballs
were pushed violently outwards by clumsy, heavy finger-tips. She leaned
against the wall of one of the houses, and, with the idea of avoidance of
scandal still working numbly in her brain, she turned her head this way
and that to see if there were any observers of her pitiful plight; but
the street lay to right and left, sordid, silent, and deserted. She
reflected that, of course, the inhabitants must be sheltering from the
heat--sleeping, perhaps--Ah! sleeping!--and she was so tired, so deathly
weary--and her feet were so heavy--so far away--and heavy----

Surely Monsieur Gabriel would be pleased with that melody? Wilhelmine
turned towards him, then half-consciousness returning told her she was
not in Guestrow. Where was she? She moved, tried to sit up; on her brow a
hand, cool and soothing, pressed her backwards, closing her aching eyes.
Once more her thoughts sank downwards--flickered, as it were. What did it
signify where she was, after all? Everything was far off. What scent was
that? Wonderful! She drew it in to her lungs, and it seemed to fill her
breast with fragrant freshness. With a sigh, she came back from some dim
world and opened her eyes. A strange face bent over her and she stared
wonderingly at it. Surely she was dreaming still, for it was the face of
a picture she knew. Remembrance came, ere full consciousness grasped sway
of her--Savonarola, the Monk of San Marco. She had seen a wood-cut
portrait of the inspired fanatic in a book of Eberhard Ludwig's library.
She lay, scarcely returned from her unconsciousness, gazing at this face.
Yes, Savonarola! The powerful, broken brow, the small, piercing eyes, the
rugged cheeks, the whole face dominated by the huge nose. Then full
consciousness returned to her, and she saw that this was no fanatic
genius, no monk of Italy, but an old woman with an extraordinary
physiognomy, who was watching her with patient, kindly eyes. Wilhelmine
sat up, pushing from her brow a cloth soaked in some essence, from whence
came the delicious pungent scent which had recalled her from her trance.

'Where am I?' she asked.

'You are safe, and, I pray you, rest,' answered a hoarse, weak voice.

'I thank you,' Wilhelmine said, 'I will rest; but, at least, tell me
where I am a