waist. Nera totters, extends her arms, then falls heavily backward,
her head striking on the _parquet_ floor. There is a cry of horror.
Every dancer stops. They gather round her where she lies. Her face is
turned upward, her eyes are set and glassy, her cheeks are ashen.

"Holy Virgin!" cries Nobili, in a voice of anguish, "I have killed
her!" He casts himself on the floor beside her--he raises her in his
strong arms. "Air, air!--give her air, or she will die!" he cries.

Putting every one aside, he carries Nera to the nearest window, he
lays her tenderly on a sofa. It is the very spot where he had kissed
her--under the fiery shadow of the red curtain. Alas! Nobili is
sobered now from the passion of that moment. The glamour has departed
with the light of Nera's eyes. He is ashamed of himself; but there
is a swelling at his heart, nevertheless--an impulse of infinite
compassion toward the girl who lies senseless before him--her beauty,
her undisguised love for him, plead powerfully for her. Does he love
her?

The Countess Boccarini and Nera's sisters are by her side. The poor
mother at first is speechless; she can only chafe her child's cold
hands, and kiss her white lips.

"Nera, Nera," at last she whispers, "Nera, speak to me--speak to
me--one word--only one word!"

But, alas! there is no sign of animation--to all appearance Nera is
dead. Nobili, convinced that he alone is responsible, and too much
agitated to care what he does, kneels beside her, and places his hand
upon her heart.