Before dawn the gale dropped, and between eleven o’clock and noon, in a flat calm, the snow began, freezing as it fell.

The Prince Camillo did not show himself in the streets that day.  But towards dusk, as we passed down the Via Roma, he drove by in an improvised sleigh with bells jingling on the necks of his horses.  He was bound for the theatre, which stood at the head of the street.  The Princess turned with me, and we were in time to see him alight and run up the steps, radiant, wrapped in furs, and carrying a great bouquet of pink roses, such as grow in the Genoese gardens throughout the winter.

But it appeared that, if we kept good watch on him, others had been keeping better; for, five minutes later, as we stood debating whether to follow him into the theatre, Marc’antonio and Stephanu emerged from its portico and came towards us.

“O Princess,” said Marc’antonio, “we have seen him at length and had word with him.  When we told him that you were here in Genoa, he looked at us for a moment like a man distraught—­did he not, Stephanu?”

“One would have said he was going to faint,” Stephanu corroborated.

“I think, with all his faults, he is terrified for your sake, for the risk you run.  He implored us to get you away from the city; and when we told him it was impossible, he sent word that he would come to you after the play, and himself try to persuade you.  We dared not let him know where we lodged, for fear of treachery; so, being hurried, we appointed the street by the Weavers’ Gate, where, if you will meet him, masked, a little after nine o’clock, Stephanu and I will be near—­in case of accidents—­and doubtless the Cavalier also.”

“Did he say anything of the crown, O Marc’antonio?”

“No, Princess, for we had not time.  The crowd was all around us, you understand; and he drew up and talked to us, forcing himself to smile, like a nobleman amusing himself with two peasants.  For the crown, we shall leave you to deal with him.”

“And I shall hold you to that bargain, O Marc’antonio,” said she.  “But what will you two be doing with yourselves meanwhile?”

“With permission, Princess, we return to the theatre.  We shall watch the play, and keep our eyes on him; and at half-past seven o’clock the girl Bianca dances in the ballet.  Mbe!  I have not witnessed a ballet since my days of travel.”

“And I will run home, then, and fetch my mask.  At nine o’clock, you say?”

“At nine, or a little after—­and by the Weavers’ Gate.”

“And you will leave him to me?  You understand, you two, that there is to be no violence.”

“As we hope for Heaven, Princess.”

“Farewell, then, until nine o’clock!” She dismissed them, and they returned to the portico and passed into the theatre.  “That is good,” said she, turning to me with a sigh that seemed to lift a weight from her heart.  “For, to tell the truth, I was afraid of them.”