St. Francis of Assisi may die thus, but seldom
women.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE KEEPING OF THE OATH

"Help! For God's sake, help!"

A woman's cry of agony rang out upon the sweet morning stillness. Count
Marioni, who had been hurrying on with downcast head, stood still in the
cliff path and lifted his head. It was the woman whose memory he had
cursed who stood before him--the woman on whom his vengeance was to
fall.

Her face was as white as his own, and in the swiftness of her flight her
hat had fallen away and her hair was streaming in the breeze. Yet in
that moment of her awful fear she recognized him, and shrank back
trembling, as though some unseen hand had palsied her tongue, and laid a
cold weight upon her heart They stood face to face, breathless and
speechless. A host of forgotten sensations, kindled by her appearance,
had leaped up within the Sicilian's heart. He had indeed loved this
woman.

"Merciful God! to meet you here," she faltered. "You will help me? Oh,
you will help me? My husband is being murdered there on the cliff by an
escaped lunatic. Oh! Leonardo, save him, and you may strike me dead at
your feet. It is I whom you should hate, not him. Oh, come! Come, or it
will be too late!"

He stood quite still, looking at her curiously.

"And it is I to whom you dare to come for help--I whom you ask to save
him--your husband? Adrienne, do you remember my words on the sands at
Palermo?"

She wrung her hands, frantically imploring.

"How can I remember anything--think of anything, now? For the love of
God, help him," she begged, seizing his hand. "That was all so long ago.
You would not have him killed here before my eyes? Come! Oh, do come!"

"Lead the way," he answered sternly. "Call your loudest for other help.
I make no promise, but I will see this tragedy."

She ran back along the path, and he followed her. They turned suddenly
an abrupt corner, and came upon two men locked in one another's arms,
and swaying backward and forward upon the short green turf. The lunatic,
an immense fellow, more than six feet high, was clutching his opponent's
throat with his left hand, while with his right he brandished a long
table-knife with keenly-sharpened edge. The struggle was virtually over.
The madman's strength was more than human, and desperately though he had
struggled, Lord St. Maurice was lying exhausted and overcome in his
arms.

With a final effort he turned his head at the sound of foots