frame. He rose and put on his cloak. Then, returning to the body, he
glanced at the fallen youth, lying stark on the turf in incomparable
beauty. The silence was broken by a soft rustling, as the morning breeze
stirred the tree-tops.

"What shall I do?" Casanova asked himself. "Shall I summon aid? Olivo?
Amalia? Marcolina? To what purpose? No one can bring him back to life."

He pondered with the calmness invariable to him in the most dangerous
moments of his career. "It may be hours before anyone finds him; perhaps
no one will come by before evening; perchance later still. That will
give me time, and time is of the first importance."

He was still holding his sword. Noticing that it was bloody, he wiped it
on the grass. He thought for a moment of dressing the corpse, but to do
this would have involved the loss of precious and irrecoverable minutes.
Paying the last duties, he bent once more and closed Lorenzi's eyes.
"Lucky fellow," he murmured; and then, dreamily, he kissed the dead
man's forehead.

He strode along beside the wall, turned the angle, and regained the
road. The carriage was where he had left it, the coachman fast asleep
on the box. Casanova was careful to avoid waking the man at first. Not
until he had cautiously taken his seat did he call out: "Hullo, drive
on, can't you?" and prodded him in the back. The startled coachman
looked round, greatly astonished to find that it was broad daylight.
Then he whipped up his horse and drove off.

Casanova sat far back in the carriage, wrapped in the cloak which had
once belonged to Lorenzi. In the village a few children were to be seen