put to the torture and cried in the most
heartrending manner; but he held to it, so long as he could hold to
anything, that the visitor had said "her business was the other lady's
business." What a further application of the question might have
brought we cannot tell, since he fainted before it could be tried. "The
boy Gasparo appeared to take no further interest in the elucidation of
the truth," reported the judges, "and we recommend that he be chastised
for contumacy." He was, at any rate, no witness of the scene which
followed Olimpia's entry. There was that about her, a subdued haste, a
deliberation, a kind of intensity got by rote, which fascinated the
youngster and left him staring in the hall.

Olimpia walked across it alone, went straight to a door at the bottom on
the right-hand side, turned the handle, and entered. There was a table
spread with supper; there was Captain Mosca seated at it eating a peach
from his wine-glass; there was Bellaroba, flushed and marred with tears,
leaning against the further wall. She gave a little gasp of fear when
she saw what the doorway framed; after that she followed Olimpia about
the room with the same incurable fascination which the page-boy had
felt. Olimpia shut the door as softly as she had opened it, and as
softly shot the bolt.

Then it seemed that Mosca felt her presence, for he turned, saw, and
jumped up with a cry mingled of fear and rage. It was found out
afterwards that he was unarmed. This will explain his alarm. Disastrous
honesty! his sword was upstairs in the bed.

There followed a most curious scene. The Captain stood up by the table
and dogged Olimpia with his narrow eyes. When she advanced, he backed;
when she stopped, he stopped. In this manner, eyeing each other without
a blink, they made the round of the table. Bellaroba cowered by the
wall; pursued and pursuer brushed against her in turn. She shivered and
moaned a little at every touch; but they were too intent upon their game
to know that she was there. In the second round, Mosca, who was again
close to her, reached out his hand for a knife from the table. Quick as
thought Olimpia was at him, reached across and drove her knife through
his hand into the wood. Mosca howled, but his fear by now was such that
he must be free to run as before, though he maimed himself. He tore his
hand away and left Olimpia holding a fixed blade. She wrenched it out
and made a pounce. The miserable Mosca turned to Bellarob