supporting her in his arms, and, as her
weight sank, kneeling down upon the
ground, and resting her head on his knee.

Cesare stood transfixed and motionless,
looking at the flowing blood, the dark
dishevelled hair that covered the surgeon's
knee, the white face of his hapless wife.

"Get assistance! Call for help! You have
murdered her. Veronica! Veronica!"

"Is—is she dead?" said Cesare. Then,
without waiting for a reply, he rushed out
of the room, descended the stairs with
headlong vehemence, and was gone. The
surgeon's cries presently brought up a crowd
of scared servants, most of them heated and
flustered with a revel they had been holding
in their own domain, and which had
prevented their hearing Cesare rush down
the stairs and from the house. There was
a chorus of exclamations; a confused Babel
of voices. Some of the women screamed
murder.

"Be quiet, for God's sake! Help me to
lay her on the couch."

He had stanched the blood as well as
he could, but it still flowed, and as they
lifted her to place her on the couch it
broke forth afresh, and left a ghastly trail
that marked their path across the gaily-flowered
carpet.

"Go for a doctor instantly! Go you!"
said Mr. Plew, singling out one man who
looked less scared and more self-possessed
than the others. He was a groom, and had
not long been in the prince's service.

"I am a medical man myself," said Mr.
Plew, "but I must have assistance."

The man set off, promising to make good
speed. Mr. Plew then asked for water
and linen, and, sending the other men
away, he made two of the women assist
him to do what could be done. They laid
a white sheet over her, and put pillows
and cushions beneath her head. In a few
minutes, she opened her eyes.

"Lord be merciful! She's alive!" cried
one of the women.

Mr. Plew checked her by putting his hand
over her mouth.

"Be quiet. It's a matter of life and
death that you should be quiet. Veronica,"
he added, putting his lips near to her ear
and speaking very softly. "Do you know
me?"

She formed the word "yes" with her
colourless lips. Then her eyes languidly
wandered about the room as though in
search of some one. Then for the first
time Mr. Plew remarked Cesare's absence.

"Where is—your master?" he asked of
one of the women, interpreting Veronica's
look.

"Master? Master? I don't know! Did
he come in?"

"Yes, yes, he was here. He was here
just now."

"Then," cried one of the women, clasping
her hands, "was it he that done it?"

Veronica made a violent effort to speak.
"It was not all his fault," she gasped.
"I—fell—on—the knife."

The exertion was too great for her, and
she swooned again. In a few moments
the groom returned, bringing with him the
doctor and a policeman.

CHAPTER XVI. THE END.

"THERE is no hope. You had better
send for her friends at once. Are they in
London? She cannot last many hours."

The sickly grey dawn was creeping in at
the windows of the room where Mr. Plew
had watched all night by the side of the
dying girl. Dying? Ah, yes, too surely.
Before his colleague's verdict had been
uttered, Mr. Plew had known full well
that it was beyond mortal skill to save
her. The light of a shaded lamp struggled
with the dawn. They had not dared
to remove Veronica from the couch on
which she had been placed at first. The
growing daylight gradually revealed more
and more of the horrible aspect of the
chamber. The contrast of its gaudy richness
and bright gilding, with the awful
stains that ran along the floor, and with
the ghastly whiteness of the covering that
concealed the helpless form on the sofa,
and with the livid face and dishevelled hair
tossed wildly around it, was horrible.

Both the doctors had at first concurred in
thinking that there might be some hope.
But after a few hours a violent fever set in.
From that moment Mr. Plew knew that
she was doomed. She had been delirious
all night, and had asked constantly for
water, water, water. But she spoke chiefly
in Italian. Her faithful loving friend had
watched by her through the long night of
agony such as breaks the heart and
blanches the head. Then with the first
grey of morning came the words that head
this chapter:

"There is no hope."

Her father had been telegraphed for, but
it was scarcely possible that she should
survive to see him, let him make the
utmost speed he could.

After the long night of pain, fever, and
delirium, the first rays of morning found