"Nay," said the man, "none of the servants of the Bond nor yet of the
Mafia. Pietro the muleteer hath done it of his own evil heart for
robbery. Here are the watch and purse!"

"And the murderer--where is he?" said again Lucia. "Let him be brought!"

"He has had an accident, Excellency. He is dead," said Leonardi simply.

Then they took me up very softly, and bore me to the door from which I
had fled forth. Lucia walked with me. In the dusk of the leaves, while
the bearers were fumbling with the inner doors, which would swing in
their faces, Lucia put her hot lips to my hand, which she had held
kindly in hers all the way.

"Pardon me, Douglas," she said, and there was a break in her voice. I
felt the ocean of tears rising about me, and feared that I could not
find the words fittingly to answer. For the pain had made me weak.

"Nay," I said at last, just over my breath, "it was my folly. Forgive
me, little Saint Lucy of the Eyes! It was--it was--what was it that it
was?--I have forgotten--"

"An error in judgment!" said Saint Lucy of the Eyes, and forgave me,
though I cannot remember more about it.

I suppose I could take the title if I chose, for these things are easily
arranged in Italy; but Lucia and I think it will keep for the second
Stephen Douglas.