te."

"She says 'Mamette,'" said Monsieur Leroy, in a puzzled tone. "Does that
mean anything?"

But the Princess burst into passionate weeping. It was the name she had
asked for, the child's own pet name for her, its mother; it was the last
word the poor little dying lips had tried to form. Never since that
moment had the heart-broken woman spoken it, never since the fourth year
before Monsieur Leroy had been born.

He looked at her, for he seemed to have preserved his self-control, and
he saw that if matters went much further the poor sobbing woman would
reach a state which might be dangerous. He withdrew his hands from the
table and waited.

"She is gone, but she will come again now, whenever you call her," he
said gently.

"No, do not go!" cried the Princess, clutching at the smooth wood
frantically. "Come back, come back and speak to me once more!"

"She is gone, for to-night," said Monsieur Leroy, in the same gentle
tone. "I am very much exhausted."

He pressed his handkerchief to his forehead and to his temples, again
and again, while the Princess moaned, her cheek upon the table, as she
had once let it rest upon the breast of her dead child.

Monsieur Leroy rose cautiously, fearing to disturb her. He was trembling
now, as men sometimes do who have escaped alive from a great danger. He
steadied himself by the back of the arm-chair, behind which the candle
was burning steadily. With an effort, he stooped and took up the
candlestick and set it on the table. Then he looked at his watch and saw
that it was past eleven o'clock.

CHAPTER VII

It was some time since Guido had seen Lamberti, but the latter had
written him a line to say that he was going with a party of men to stop
in an old country house near the seashore, not far from Civita Vecchia.
The quail were very abundant in May that year, and Lamberti was a good
shot. He had left home suddenly on the morning after telling Guido the
story of his adventure in the Forum. Guido had at first been mildly
surprised that his friend should not have spoken of his intention on
that evening; but some one had told him that the party had been made up
at the club, late at night, which accounted for everything.

Guido was soon too much occupied to miss the daily companionship, and
was glad to be alone, when he could not be with Cecilia. He no longer
concealed from himself that he was very much in love with her, and that,
compa