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again, making a gesture of distress.
“I will go for aid,” she said, and would have left him, but he spoke,
and she paused to listen.
“If I go he shall not live—he for whom you hated me,” he said,
with a passion of malice that shook his frame. “He shall not live!”
She thought he meant that Mario would die from his wound.
“He will die by my command. His end is decreed—decreed by
me,” Tarsis went on with a hideous chuckle.
Now she thought it the raving of a delirious brain.
“You do not believe me,” he said, striving to laugh. “But you will
believe when you see his white face in the night. By my hand he will
die within the hour.”
She turned away to shut out the sight of his face.
“Still you do not believe,” she could hear him saying. “You think I
do not know; but I know. You think he is safe. He is not. I saw him go
by. Yes; with my own eyes I saw him pass—a moment before you
came to the door. Now he is on the way to the monastery—the
monastery where you held your trysts and deceived me; the
monastery where a knife awaits his heart.”
She wheeled suddenly, fearful now that he spoke the truth. “What
do you mean?” she asked.
A paroxysm of agony stifled the words he tried to speak. When it
had passed somewhat he answered, straining every resource of his
ebbing powers to the effort:
“I lured him to the monastery to-night. The Panther will not fail.
Not he! I did it—I!”
She comprehended, she believed. At her heart a heavy aching
began, the sinking sense of an irreparable loss. She strangled a cry,
and fell upon her knees before the chair and buried her face in her
hands. And Tarsis, seeing her thus affected, shook and choked with
gloating laughter.
 “I wrote the letter,” he went on, in a pitiful effort. “I copied your
hand; the letter that bid him go to you—and he has gone,—fool, dog
that bit me!—and you will not have him when I am gone. I saw him
pass—pass to his doom! He thinks you are there awaiting him with
your kisses. The knife will be there! The kiss of steel will greet him!”
She could not credit her senses. The man lying there in the last
breath of his life was choking and laughing—a mocking, malevolent
laughter, as hideous a sound as human ear ever heard. She shrank
from him; she wished to flee where neither eye could see that face,
twitching in hateful glee, nor ear know the horror of such dying
words. But soon enough his features and tongue became composed.
The voices of the street had dwindled to a dull rumble. She drew
near to him, and looked upon his face. On his lip lingered a foam that
no breath disturbed; and in his open, staring eyes she read the
message that set her free.
She kneeled again and prayed, asking mercy for him and pardon
for herself if, in following the light of conscience, she had wronged
her husband. When a little time had passed she rose and went on
the balcony to stand in the coolness of the night. From the street
came no longer sounds of strife or pain; order reigned again in the
dwelling quarter of the well-to-do; with bullets and bayonets the
revolution had been driven across Cathedral Square, back to the
Porta Ticinese. The quieter phase checked her whirling thoughts,
helped her to take facts at a clearer value. She had seen the chain
that held her parted, as a silken thread might have been snapped,
but only to give her into a new bondage, that of despair, if what
Tarsis said was truth; nor could she doubt those terrible words. Mario
was well on his way. More than half an hour before he had set out for
the monastery. It was too late, she perceived, to overtake him,
unless—unless she rode like the gale.
She thought of her horse and the hard-ridden miles he had done
that afternoon, and knew that with him it would be impossible; but
there was the palace stable with its long rows of horses, and some of
them fleet-footed under the saddle, as she knew. The thought
kindled a beautiful hope. Her lips set in the firmness of resolve; she
threw a glance toward the lounge with its silent occupant, and
started for the door. Over the wreckage of the grand saloon she
made her way without mischance, for the moon was sending its flood
through the glass dome; there was a streaming of light, too, from the
corridor, and she beheld a man standing in the doorway arch
wringing his hands. It was Beppe, quaking from causes other than
fright.
He assured her Excellency that he was not one of those who had
deserted the palace; he had done no more than observe the
precaution to secrete himself in the wine cellar that he might be at
hand when the master wanted him. The velvet had gone from his
voice and the steadiness from his speech. Plainly he had not been
idle while hiding amid the bottles. With an upward roll of the eyes
and more wringing of the hands, he gasped the wish that no harm
had befallen Signor Tarsis.
Hera pointed across the great hall to where the light poured from
the library, and kept on her way. In her veins there was a new
leaping of life—hopeful, eager. The invaders had swung their axes
and bludgeons at the corridor mirrors, and she had to choose her
steps over broken glass and shattered woodwork. The grand
staircase was illuminated; there and in the portico she met servants
returning because assured that the storm had passed.
In the rear court she looked around for her horse. The shapes of
things all about were visible in the moonlight, but of her horse there
was no sign. Lamps were lit in the stables, and she heard the excited
voices of hostlers. When she told the head man to saddle the
swiftest horse, he asked her Excellency’s pardon and pointed to the
rows of empty stalls. While the rioters within the palace were
reforming society by destroying art objects and baiting their owner,
their brothers below had been plundering the stable. Every horse
was gone.
 CHAPTER XXIV
A CHASE IN THE MOONLIGHT

Hera asked if the automobiles, too, were gone. The excited

servants told her the garage had been attacked and everything
smashed. Had any one seen Sandro? Yes; he was there looking
through the ruins. She ran to the door of the place, and called the
name of the chauffeur. From amid the wreckage he answered her,
and came forth, cap in hand.
“Are all the machines damaged?” she asked.
“All but one, your Excellency. The thirty-horse touring car is far
back in the house, and the devils did not get to it.”
“Can it be used at once?”
“Oh, yes, your Excellency. There is not so much as a scratch
upon it.”
“I wish to go to Villa Barbiondi as swiftly as you can make it carry
us.”
“The moon is bright, and if the road is half clear,” he said,
delighted with the hazardous mission, “we can do it in thirty minutes.”
Then he called to the hostlers and other servants to come and
clear away the useless cars, for Donna Hera was going to make a
dash in the night. With a will they fell to, and one wreck after another
was dragged out of the garage. Sandro touched something in the
surviving machine, and smiled to hear it respond with coughs and
sobs. He took a minute to crawl under it, measure things with critical
eye by the light of an electric lantern, and was on his feet again
throwing in lap cloths and handing a mask to Hera. He sprang in,
pulled the lever and shot the machine out to the court. Once or twice
he ran it back and forth, cutting figures after the manner of fancy
skaters, and with a satisfied “All right” he descended again and
opened the door for Hera. When she had her seat it was touch and
go. With the hostlers standing wide-eyed, and Beppe, no longer
tipsy, running from the portico big with the news of what he had
found in the library, the car swung out of the court, headed for the
Venetian Gate.
“I wish you to make the best speed that you can,” Hera said,
when they were bumping over the cobbles of Via Borghetto.
He patted the air reassuringly as he glanced back at her. “Your
Excellency need have no anxiety,” he said. “Leave it to me.”
As he spoke they leaped into a swifter pace, and this was held in
the Corso and through the streets beyond the walls; but when the
crowds of soldiers and civilians were behind them, and Hera sighted
once more the far horizon, set with stars, he sent the speed lever
home and, like a spurred horse, the machine plunged out upon the
wide, white road. In the suburb of Villacosa she received an
impression of dimly-lighted street, carbineers and gesturing
workmen, bare heads at windows, barking dogs, and a thumping rise
and fall over a cobbled bridge.
A few seconds and all this was far at their back, and they were
spinning over plains that stretched in the silver night for miles on
either hand, level as a table. Now and then they came upon a market
wagon labouring along, but the way was wide, and they curved
around it like a shooting star.
The wind had swept all the clouds from heaven; only a few
vapours thin as the moonlight flitted across the stars; to footfarers
the wind did no more than whisper; for Hera and Sandro it was a
gale that whipped around them with a high, thin yell and caught up
the powder of the road and smote them with it in clouds that must
have blinded but for their masks.
They swerved northward into a narrow byway that was a short
crossing to the road that followed Adda’s margin. It was a precipitate
dive into the woods. There was no light save that cast by the car’s
lamps, and the course was difficult with many a sharp crook. Every
minute they were on the point of vaulting into the thicket or trying
conclusions with a sturdy oak. They rocked and swayed at times as
if their carrier was a boat in a choppy sea. Hera was occupied in
holding fast, but Sandro seemed not to know that the experience
was at all unusual. Forgetting himself and all the world except the
road and the dangers that the lamps revealed, he became a part of
the dodging, spinning thing, meeting emergencies with a passive
certainty that was more automatic than human. He had seen in
Hera’s eye that more than a lady’s caprice had inspired this
nocturnal flight, and he had prayed that none of his steed’s airy feet
might know puncture, or heart-failure attack it through the carbureter.
When they had struck again into a straight run, and through the
vista of foliage could see the river’s sheening face, Sandro shouted,
in an access of pride for his achievement:
“It was very amusing, that little bit there! I know my trade, do I
not, your Excellency?”
Hera gave him an appreciative smile and a nod, although he had
not made his words carry above the roar and yell that were with
them always.
The wheels on one side clear of the earth, they rounded a corner
and darted forth on the fine river road. Now the way was as level as
a plank. Sandro moved the speed lever, and the file of poplars, yards
apart, chased away like giants close upon one another’s heels.
Houses on the passing hillside, with lighted windows, winked at them
and were gone. All the details of the landscape were on the move.
Villages streamed by in jumbled masses of low masonry.
The bridge of Speranza swept past to join other landmarks, and
Hera caught sight of a horseman, so far ahead as to be beyond the
range of the lamps but showing distinctly in the paleness of the night.
Standing up and leaning forward so that she might pour all the power
of her voice against Sandro’s ear-drum, she told him to “Stop!” It was
two miles yet to Villa Barbiondi, and he answered her with only an
assurance that there was no danger. And not until she had shaken
him by the shoulder and pointed to the figure now in the lamp glare
did he shut off speed and set his brake down.
 The rider had gone from the highway into the little road that ran
uphill to the monastery ruins. Within a few feet of the turning Sandro
brought the car to a halt. He looked around for the lady, but she had
disengaged herself from the lap covering, thrown off the mask, and
was on the ground, running toward the horseman. With all her
strength she called his name, and the grove of maples into whose
darkness he had passed gave back her voice.
“Mario, Mario! It is I, Hera!”
He heard, and his horse, checked violently, reared and curvetted
in turning, then came toward her at a gallop, out into the moonlight.
Quickly she told him of the emancipating event in Milan and the
dying words that had sent her to warn him; but there was no
bitterness for any one now in either heart. All the world was love for
the man and woman standing there beneath the stars, prisoners of
honour and despair suddenly made free. The shadow of a solitary
yew tree touched them—a symbol of what had been. The lonely cry
of a bird sounded; somewhere in the distance a dog barked; and as
they started for the highway a swishing of leafy bush drew their gaze
toward a figure with loping carriage that slunk away toward the
bridge of Speranza. He never looked back, but went like a panther
balked of his prey.

When a year had passed they met once more in the cloister
ruins, amid the sleeping fragrance of the wild flowers. As careless
children they roamed in the age-old garden, thrilled with the thought
of Love set free. The afternoon had faded far; the sun touched only
the capitals of the low Doric columns, where ivy and honeysuckle
cleaved and iridescent sun-birds dipped into flowery cups. The
gentlest wind that ever tried its wings stole in by the clefts of grey
wall and made the tiny white bells of the vale lilies tremble. Bees
murmured over the tufts of fragrant thyme.
Once they wandered a little apart, she to cull the blooms of a
strawberry plant, he to pluck white and pink and gold from the many
grasses for the garland that she said she would make; and they
called to one another over the bushes in sheer transport of joy. They
came upon a bud of eglantine, called by them rosa salvatica, but for
their garland they did not take it, because it was a symbol of love
unfulfilled.
A while and they left the bright aspect of the cloister to enter the
gloom of the chapel, he carrying the big cluster of blossoms.
Suddenly she turned and looked back, and with a little cry ran to
regain the hat she had tossed on a grassy bank; and the trifle was
enough to set their laughter pealing again.
They moved to the window near the square of blank wall where
Arvida’s portrait had been. For a space they stood there, while the
west caught first the faint hue of rose, then flamed in ruby fire. His
kiss was fresh upon her lips, and in their eyes the ardour of a
passion no longer to be conquered. From a far-off hamlet, where a
steeple rose out of the haze, the Angelus came to them; they
watched the toilers bow their heads in reverence and plod their way
homeward. The broad landscape lay in the mysterious hush of
folding night, but they took no thought for time or circumstance. They
seated themselves on a low stone bench of the pattern that
mediæval builders were wont to carry around the interior walls of
churches. He joined the ends of the garland to fashion a chaplet,
and, placing it on her massing tresses, crowned her his queen
forever.
The End.
 “Myrtle Reed has certainly an
instinct for the exquisite phrase,
delicate touch for an allegory, a
capacity for using words
somewhat after the fashion of
notes in music, to weave together
into a melody.”
Milwaukee Sentinel.

A Spinner in the Sun

By MYRTLE REED
Author of “Lavender and Old
Lace,” “The Master’s Violin,”
etc.
Uniform with “Lavender and Old
Lace,” etc. Crown
8vo. Cloth, extra gilt top, printed in
red and
black, net, $1.50. Full red leather,
net, $2.00. Antique calf,
net, $2.50. Lavender
silk, net, $3.50
The thousands who have
enjoyed the gentle humor, the
story-telling skill, and the delicate
sentiment of “Lavender and Old
Lace” will find the same qualities
in “A Spinner in the Sun.” While
striking the chords of humor,
pathos, and sentiment, which
formerly have never failed to
charm Miss Reed’s admirers, it is
more likely to please the exacting
critic than anything else she has
written—and this because it
evinces a firmer grasp of
character and a more serious
grappling with the problems of life.
It also has the advantage of an
interesting entanglement of plot
which throws over it the glamour
of romance.
A complete descriptive circular
of Miss Reed’s books sent on
application

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
 An exceptionally good
book

A Son of the People

A Romance of the Hungarian
Plains

By Baroness Orczy
Author of “The Scarlet
Pimpernel” etc.
Baroness Orczy needs no
introduction to lovers of good
fiction. The scene of her new story
is Hungary—the hero a handsome
young peasant who, having
inherited a fortune from his thrifty
father, is enabled to save a
Hungarian nobleman from losing
all his lands, and in return
receives the hand of the lord’s
daughter whom he has long
worshipped from afar.
Immediately after the wedding the
peasant bridegroom discovers
that his wife despises him and has
merely allowed herself to be sold
as payment of her father’s debt.
How he tries to overcome this
feeling and what effect his
generous and big-hearted nature
finally has upon her must be left
for the reader to find out for
himself. Like The Scarlet
Pimpernel, the present story is of
intense dramatic interest and
shows great emotional strength.

Crown 8vo. $1.50

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
 “Signor Fogazzaro is at the
present moment undoubtedly the
greatest of Italian novelists. His
nobility of feeling, his wide
sympathy, his kindliness and
breezy humor entitle him to a high
place among writers of fiction.”
Villari’s “Italian Life in Town and
Country.”

The Saint
(IL SANTO)

By ANTONIO
FOGAZZARO
While The Saint concerns itself
with the present-day religious
questions and political problems
of Italy, the author has not allowed
the purpose of his story to
overweigh and impair its dramatic
quality. The story is most
interesting as a description of
Italian life both high and low. It is
being read by thousands in Italy
who care little or nothing about
the religious problem and who find
themselves literally entranced by
its strong human interest.
Authorized Translation by M.
Agnetti Pritchard
With an Introduction by William
Roscoe Thayer
Crown 8vo. $1.50

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
“A romance to stir the pulse.”—N.
Y. Telegram.

No. 101
By

Wymond Carey
Author of “Monsieur Martin,”
etc.
A stirring story of adventure
during the war of the Austrian
Succession. No. 101 was the
cipher used as a signature by a
daring spy through whose agency
the English were supplied with
exact and unerring information
concerning the French plans.
“It abounds in strong incident
and sharp and abundant
anfractuosities of plot. If the
reader does not like it he is a
realist and we pity him.”—N. Y.
Sun.
“We speak enthusiastically of
this romance. It possesses
originality—very great originality—
in plot and character drawing. The
women are so well drawn that the
reader will fall in love with them—
Yvonne of the Spotless Ankles in
particular.”—Baltimore Sun.
 “An exciting story, full of action,
mystery, love, and passion, and
the glitter of a fascinating court.”
Chicago Inter-Ocean.
Illustrated by Wal Paget. Crown
octavo, $1.50

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London

Footnote:
[A] The Lord’s Supper.
 Transcriber’s Notes:
On page 22, silk-milk has been changed to silk-
mill.
On page 104, spinister has been changed to
spinster.
On page 122, tesselated has been changed to
tessellated.
On page 138, where-ever has been changed to
wherever.
On pages 164 and 166, Tarsus has been
changed to Tarsis.
On page 209, silk makers has been changed to
silk-makers.
On page 249, eying has been changed to eyeing.
On page 256, Uhlich has been changed to Ulrich.
On page 294, Bardioni has been changed to
Barbiondi.
All other spelling and hyphenation has been
retained as typeset.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SWORD
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