And I am punished too. I shall die or go mad when I understand.… And I want to be alone. Go now, dear Signor Orso Americano, and take my love and this message to Signor Jean Boule. I kiss his boots in humility and apology, and if he will kill this Rivoli for me I will be his slave for life."
"Let me kill him fer yew, Carmelita," begged the American as he turned to go, and then paused as his face lit up with the brightness of an idea. "No," he said. "Almighty God! I got another think come. I'll come an' see yew to-morrow, Carmelita—and make yew a proposal about Mounseer Loojey as'll do yew good." At the door he beckoned to the Russian girl.
"Look at hyar, Miss Mikhail," he whispered. "Stand by her like a man to-night. Nuss her, and coddle her and soothe her. You see she don't do herself no harm. Yew hev' her safe and in her right mind in the mornin'—an' we'll git yew and yure brother outer Sidi or my name ain't Hyram Cyrus Milton."
§3
That night was one of the most unforgettable of all the memorable nights through which Olga Kyrilovitch ever lived in the course of her adventurous career. For it was the only night during which she was shut up with a violent and dangerous homicidal maniac. In addition to fighting for her own life, the girl had, at times, to fight for that of her assailant, and she deserved well of the Bucking Bronco. Nature at length asserted herself and Carmelita collapsed. She slept, and awoke in the middle of the next day as sane as a person can be, every fibre of whose being yearns and tingles with one fierce obsession. Even
