“Oh, yes, I know that,” said Annunziata.  “But”—­she raised calm pellucid eyes—­“wouldn’t you like to die?”

“Certainly not,” said Maria Dolores, a shadow on her face.

“I would,” said Annunziata, stoutly.  “It must be lovely to die.”

“Hush,” Maria Dolores rebuked her, frowning.  “You must not say such things.”

“Why not say them, if you think them?” asked Annunziata.

“You mustn’t think them either,” said Maria Dolores.

“Oh, I can’t help thinking them,” said Annunziata, with a movement.  “It surely must be lovely to die and go to Heaven.  If I were perfectly sure I should go to Heaven, I would shut my eyes and die now.  But I should probably have to wait some time in Purgatory.  And, of course, I might go to Hell.”

Maria Dolores’ face was full of trouble.  “You must not talk like that,” she said.  “You must not.  It is wicked of you.”

“Then, if I am wicked, I should go to Hell?” inquired Annunziata, looking alertly up.

Maria Dolores looked about her, looked across the river, down the valley, as one in distress scanning the prospect for aid.  “Of course you would not,” she said.  “My dear child, can’t we find something else to talk of?”

“Do you think I shall have a very long and hard Purgatory?” asked Annunziata.

Maria Dolores threw a despairing glance at the horizon.

“No, no, dear,” she answered uneasily.  “You will have a very short and gentle one.  Anyhow, you’ll not have to consider that for years to come.  Now shall we change the subject?”

“Well,” said Annunziata, with an air of deliberation, “if you are perfectly sure I shall not go to Hell, and that my Purgatory will not be long and hard, I think I will do what I said.  I will lie down in the water and go to sleep, and the water will drown me, and I shall die.”

Maria Dolores’ face was terrified.  “Annunziata!” she cried.  “You don’t know what you are saying.  You are cruel.  You won’t do anything of the sort.  You must give me your solemn word of honour that you won’t do anything of the sort.  It would be a most dreadful sin.  Come.  Come with me now, away from here, away from the sight of the river.  You must never come here alone again.  Give me your hand, and come away.”

Annunziata got up, gave her hand, and moved off at Maria Dolores’ side, towards the Castle.  “Of course,” she said, “if I want to die, I don’t need to lie down in the water.  I can die at any moment I wish, by just shutting my eyes, and holding my breath, and telling my heart seven times to stop beating.  Heart, stop beating; heart, stop beating;—­that way, seven times.”

“For the love of Mercy,” wailed poor Maria Dolores, almost writhing in her misery....  Then, suddenly, she breathed a deep sigh of relief, and fervently exclaimed, “Thank God.”  John was advancing towards them, down the rugged pathway.

“Do please come and help me with this perverse and maddening child,” she called to him, in English.  “She’s frightening me half out of my wits by threatening to die.  She even threatened to drown herself in the Rampio.”