below them, and he tried to turn his face from her, seeking refuge in
the thought of what he had done, from the evil he still might do.

"I have been thinking over all I said to you yesterday afternoon," she
said gently. "I meant it, you know--I meant it all."

"I trust to Heaven you did!" answered Bosio.

"Yes, dear, I meant it," she said in a voice of gold and velvet. "I will
try to mean it still. But--Bosio--look at me!"

He turned his eyes, but not his face.

"Yes?" His voice was not above his breath.

"Yes--but can you? Can I? Can we live without each other?"

"Yes, we must." He spoke louder, with an effort.

She drew nearer to him, strong and soft.

"Yes? Well--but say goodbye--not as yesterday--not as though it were
good bye--one kiss, Bosio, only one kiss--one, dear--one--"

And in it, her voice was silent, for it had done its tempting, and she
had her will, on the selfsame spot where he had kissed Veronica. Then he
trembled from head to foot, and his heart stood still. An instant later
he was gone, and she had not tried to keep him. She watched him as he
left her and went to the door without turning.

He walked quickly when he had shut the door behind him, and his face
was livid. The depth below the depths had been too deep. He had but one
thought as he went through the rooms, and the antechamber, and hall, and
out upon the cold staircase, and up to his own door, and on, and in,
till he turned the key of his own room behind him. There was no stopping
then, either, between the door and the table, between key and lock, and
hand and weapon.

Before the woman's kiss had been upon his lips two minutes, Bosio
Macomer lay dead, alone, under the green-shaded lamp in his own remote
room.

Peace upon him, if there be peace for such men, in the mercy of Almighty
God. He did evil all his life, but there was an evil which even he would
not do upon the innocent life of another. He died lest he should do it,
and desperately grasping at the universal strength of death, he cast
himself and his weakness into the impregnable stronghold of the grave.

CHAPTER XI.

It was still early in the morning, and all Naples knew that Count Bosio
Macomer had committed suicide on the preceding evening. Every morning
newspaper had a paragraph about the shocking tragedy, but few ventured
to guess at any reason for the deed. It was merely stated that Count
Bosio's servant had been alarmed by the report of a pistol about n