But then, if she went to Padre Filippo, she would have to confess all she had done, and she was not prepared to do that.  A few weeks would pass, and that time would be sufficient to mellow and smooth the remembrance of her revengeful projects into a less questionable shape.  No—­she could not confess all that just yet.  Surely such an oath was not binding; at all events, she could not marry Del Fence, whether she broke her promise or not.  In the first place, she would send for him and vent her anger upon him while it was hot.

Accordingly, in the space of three-quarters of an hour, Ugo appeared, smiling, smooth and persuasive as usual.  Donna Tullia assumed a fine attitude of disdain as she heard his step outside the door.  She intended to impress him with a full and sudden view of her just anger.  He did not seem much moved, and came forward as usual to take her hand and kiss it.  But she folded her arms and stared at him with all the contempt she could concentrate in the gaze of her blue eyes.  It was a good comedy.  Del Ferice, who had noticed as soon as he entered the room that something was wrong, and had already half guessed the cause, affected to spring back in horror when she refused to give her hand.  His pale face expressed sufficiently well a mixture of indignation and sorrow at the harsh treatment he received.  Still Donna Tullia’s cold eye rested upon him in a fixed stare.

“What is this?  What have I done?” asked Del Ferice in low tones.

“Can you ask?  Wretch!  Read that, and understand what you have done,” answered Donna Tullia, making a step forward and thrusting Saracinesca’s letter in his face.

Del Ferice had already seen the handwriting, and knew what the contents were likely to be.  He took the letter in one hand, and without looking at it, still faced the angry woman.  His brows contracted into a heavy frown, and his half-closed eyes gazed menacingly at her.

“It will be an evil day for any man who comes between you and me,” he said, in tragic tones.

Donna Tullia laughed harshly, and again drew herself up, watching his face, and expecting to witness his utter confusion.  But she was no match for the actor whom she had promised to marry.  Del Ferice began to read, and as he read, his frown relaxed; gradually an ugly smile, intended to represent fiendish cunning, stole over his features, and when he had finished, he uttered a cry of triumph.

“Ha!” he said, “I guessed it!  I hoped it—­and it is true!  He is found at last!  The very man—­the real Saracinesca!  It is only a matter of time—­”

Donna Tullia now stared in unfeigned surprise.  Instead of crushing him to the ground as she had expected, the letter seemed to fill him with boundless delight.  He paced the room in wild excitement, chattering like a madman.  In spite of herself, however, her own spirits rose, and her anger against Del Ferice softened.  All was perhaps not lost—­who could fathom the intricacy of his great schemes?  Surely he was not the man to fall a victim to his own machinations.