Unutterable fury filled Fabio’s breast with
a sudden inrush. ’Accursed sorcerer!’
he shrieked furiously, and seizing Muzzio by the throat
with one hand, with the other he felt for the dagger
in his girdle, and plunged the blade into his side
up to the hilt.
Muzzio uttered a shrill scream, and clapping his hand
to the wound, ran staggering back to the pavilion....
But at the very same instant when Fabio stabbed him,
Valeria screamed just as shrilly, and fell to the earth
like grass before the scythe.
Fabio flew to her, raised her up, carried her to the
bed, began to speak to her....
She lay a long time motionless, but at last she opened
her eyes, heaved a deep, broken, blissful sigh, like
one just rescued from imminent death, saw her husband,
and twining her arms about his neck, crept close to
him. ’You, you, it is you,’ she faltered.
Gradually her hands loosened their hold, her head
sank back, and murmuring with a blissful smile, ’Thank
God, it is all over.... But how weary I am!’
she fell into a sound but not heavy sleep.
Fabio sank down beside her bed, and never taking his
eyes off her pale and sunken, but already calmer,
face, began reflecting on what had happened ... and
also on how he ought to act now. What steps was
he to take? If he had killed Muzzio—and
remembering how deeply the dagger had gone in, he could
have no doubt of it—it could not be hidden.
He would have to bring it to the knowledge of the
archduke, of the judges ... but how explain, how describe
such an incomprehensible affair? He, Fabio, had
killed in his own house his own kinsman, his dearest
friend? They will inquire, What for? on what
ground?... But if Muzzio were not dead? Fabio
could not endure to remain longer in uncertainty,
and satisfying himself that Valeria was asleep, he
cautiously got up from his chair, went out of the house,
and made his way to the pavilion. Everything
was still in it; only in one window a light was visible.
With a sinking heart he opened the outer door (there
was still the print of blood-stained fingers on it,
and there were black drops of gore on the sand of
the path), passed through the first dark room ...
and stood still on the threshold, overwhelmed with
amazement.
In the middle of the room, on a Persian rug, with
a brocaded cushion under his head, and all his limbs
stretched out straight, lay Muzzio, covered with a
wide, red shawl with a black pattern on it. His
face, yellow as wax, with closed eyes and bluish eyelids,
was turned towards the ceiling, no breathing could
be discerned: he seemed a corpse. At his
feet knelt the Malay, also wrapt in a red shawl.
He was holding in his left hand a branch of some unknown
plant, like a fern, and bending slightly forward, was
gazing fixedly at his master. A small torch fixed
on the floor burnt with a greenish flame, and was
the only light in the room. The flame did not
