The lieutenant had remembered no more until he had come to his senses to find that he was being carried along on some kind of rough litter. The pain and the jolting had caused him again to lose consciousness, and when next he awoke he was in his uncle's house.
There had been no questions from his hearers. Anna had sat rigidly as before, and Edward, his head between his hands, rocked himself gently to and fro. From time to time he gave a little moan.
Gaspar had fixed his eyes on the centre of a rose pattern in the carpet, and had resumed his tale in a low, hopeless voice.
"My first thoughts were of Miss Baxendale and of how she had fared. For two days they would tell me nothing except that she was slightly hurt. I only heard yesterday the true state of affairs, how her cloak and hat had been found in the ravine near the Wrecked car. The river, they tell me, is deep here and weed-grown and there are great rocky holes. I----"
The lieutenant had risen with a choking sound in his throat as he recited these details. He leant heavily on his crutch, standing before Anna and Edward.
"This is as painful to me--as to you. I--I--can say no more." He advanced to the little bowed figure before him and held out a hesitating left hand.
"I would like to hear you say one word, sir. This affair will be with me to the day of my death. I am beyond the reach of Miss Baxendale's pardon, but not of yours. You will perhaps be leaving San Pietro and I would like a word to remember and look back on. It would be one spot of brightness in the darkness of my future."
Edward had taken the proffered hand and the lieutenant had bent low over it, pressing it to his lips. Then he turned for the harder task of facing Anna Paluda. But that lady had taken advantage of his back being turned to slip unnoticed away. Gaspar's relief at being spared the leave-taking was mixed with a disquieting feeling of a pending misfortune. He told himself that it would be long before he could forget the eyes of the lady in black.
Painfully, and with dragging step, Mozara left the house and made his way down the path to the boulevard. The fiacre which had been waiting for him was drawn up at the curb, and into it the wounded officer was helped by the driver, who, mounting his box, turned his horse and drove off in the direction of the Old Town.