“Go to your room, Mary,” said Mr. Van de Werve.

“Give me this proof of affection.  Ask nothing.”

The young girl, struck by these evidences of some misfortune, ran to her father and exclaimed, joining her hands: 

“Speak, father, and tell me what has happened.  Leave me not in this terrible suspense.  Tell me that they have not found Geronimo’s dead body.  Alas! he is dead!  Is it not so?”

Throwing her arms around her father’s neck, she wept bitterly, conjuring him to tell her the cause of their emotion.

Without giving her any explanation, Mr. Van de Werve attempted to lead his daughter out of the room; but she, like one crazed by grief, released her hand from her father’s, fell upon her knees before Turchi, and exclaimed: 

“By the love you bore him, signor, take pity on me and tell me what has happened to him.  Let me not leave the room under the frightful conviction that he is dead!”

Turchi remained silent, gazing upon her with an expression of profound sadness.

“You, too, are implacable, inexorable!” she said, rising.

“But you, at least—­his uncle, his father—­will be more merciful.”

She ran to the weeping merchant, gently forced his hands from his face, and conjured him, in piteous accents, to give her some information which would relieve the torturing suspense.

The old Deodati, still weeping, threw his arms around her neck, and murmured: 

“God bless you, my child, for your love.  Let us pray for him!”

Mr. Van de Werve had left the room to call Petronilla.  He returned with her, and said to his daughter: 

“Mary, go with your duenna.  You must not remain here longer.”

The young girl seemed not to hear her father’s words, for she was immovable as if petrified by grief.

He added, in an impatient, severe tone: 

“Mary, leave the room.  I wish it; I command it.  Obey me.”

She arose and walked slowly towards the door.  Tears flowed down her cheeks; she supported her trembling limbs by leaning on the arm of her duenna.  Mr. Van de Werve feared she would lose consciousness before reaching her own apartment.

All, with the exception of the perfidious Turchi, were moved by compassion for the unhappy young girl.

As the duenna opened the door to let her mistress pass out, strange sounds were heard in the vestibule.

Mary started, and stepped back into the room, as though in presence of some apparition.

“It is his ghost, his spirit,” she exclaimed, “arisen from the grave to demand vengeance upon his murderers!”

She gazed with intense emotion, then added, in accents of the wildest joy: 

“He smiles upon me; it is himself!  He lives!  It is Geronimo!”

Pronouncing this cherished name, she fell insensible in the arms of her attendant, who, assisted by the bailiff, carried her to an armchair.