“—­in the hour of our death.  Amen!”

An unearthly sound rent the stillness.  The huge dog sat upright on his haunches, his head thrown up and back, his terrible lower jaw trembling as he howled, and howled again, waking great echoes where the roar of wild lions had rung long ago.

Regina started, though she did not move a step; but an unreasoning fear fell upon Ercole.  He could not see her face, as the dark veil hung down.  She was so motionless and fearless; only the dead could be as fearless of death and as still as she.  Her breast was so white; her hands were like marble hands, parting a black shroud upon it.  She was something risen from the grave to haunt him in that lonely place and drive him mad; and the appalling howl of the great dog robe deafeningly on the silence and trembled and died away, and began again.

Ercole’s hand relaxed, and the knife fell gleaming at his feet.  One instant more and he turned and fled through the trees, towards San Gregorio, his dog galloping heavily after him.

Regina’s hands fell by her sides, and the folds of her cloak closed together and hung straight down.  She stared into the shadowy distance a moment after her father, and saw his figure twice in the light where the trees were wider apart, before he disappeared altogether.  She looked down and saw the knife at her feet, and she picked it up and felt the point.  It was as sharp as a needle, for Ercole had whetted it often since he had sat by the gate in the early morning last August.  It was wet, for the grass under the trees had not dried since the rain.

She felt the point and edge with her hand, and sighed.  It would have been better to have felt it in her breast, but she would not take her own life.  She was not afraid to do it, and her young hand would have been strong enough and sure enough to do it quickly.  It was not the thought of the pain that made her close the knife; it was the fear of hell.  Nothing she had done in her life seemed very bad to her, because it had all been for Marcello.  If Ercole had killed her, she thought that God would have forgiven her after a time.  But if she killed herself she would instantly be seized by devils and thrust into real flames, to burn for ever, without the slightest chance of forgiveness.  She had been taught that, and she believed it, and the thought of the fire made her shut the clasp-knife and slip it into her dress with a sigh.  It would be a pity to throw it away, for it seemed to be a good knife, and her father could not have had it very long.

She fastened her frock under her mantle and went a few steps down the little slope towards the Colosseum.  To go on meant to go home, and she stopped again.  The place was very lonely and peaceful, and the light on the great walls was quiet and good to see.  Though she had stood so still, waiting to die, and had said her little prayer so calmly, her brave heart had been beating slow and hard as if it were counting