the air, eddying, rising, falling; then, light as thistledown, it touched the water and began to sink.
The messenger uttered frantic lamentations, and stamped the causeway in his rage. The Countess only looked, and looked, until the rippling crest of a baby wave broke over the tiny venture, and with its freight of tidings it sank from sight.
The man, silent now, stared a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, ’tis fortunate it was his,” he cried brutally, “and not His Excellency’s, or my back had suffered! And now,” he added impatiently, “by your leave, what answer?”
What answer? Ah, God, what answer? The men who leant on the parapet, rude and coarse as they were, felt the tragedy of the question and the dilemma, guessed what they meant to her, and looked everywhere save at her.
What answer? Which of the two was to live? Which die—shamefully? Which? Which?
“Tell him—to come back—an hour before sunset,” she muttered.
They told him and he went; and one by one the men began to go too, and stole from the roof, leaving her standing alone, her face to the shore, her hands resting on the parapet. The light breeze which blew off the land stirred loose ringlets of her hair, and flattened the thin robe against her sunlit figure. So had she stood a thousand times in old days, in her youth, in her maidenhood. So in her father’s time had she stood to see her lover come riding along the sands to woo her! So had she stood to welcome him on the eve of that fatal journey to Paris! Thence had others watched her go with him. The men remembered—remembered all; and one by one they stole shamefacedly away, fearing lest she should speak or turn tragic eyes on them.
True, in their pity for her was no doubt of the end, or
