He wanted to hear something,--to
find something,--and yet he could not agree with himself as to the
nature of the circumstance he sought to discover. There was a
lurking suspicion in his mind to which he would not give a name,--a
dark thought that made him tremble with mingled rage and horror,--
but he put it away from him as a hint offered by the Evil One--an
insidious suggestion as hideous as it was unnatural. The afternoon
had now closed into night, and many stars were glistening bravely in
the purple depths of the clear sky,--the air was mild and balmy,--
and as he crossed the road to turn down the little side street
leading to the Tiber, where Florian Varillo had stood but a few
hours previously, a flower-girl met him with a large basket of white
hyacinths and held them up to his eyes.
"Ecco la primavera, Signor!" she said, with a smile.
He shook his head, and turned abruptly away,--as he did so, his foot
struck against some slight obstacle. Stooping to examine it, he saw
it was the empty leathern sheath of a dagger. He picked it up, and
studied it intently. It was elaborately adorned with old rococco
work, and was evidently the ornamental covering of one of those
small but deadly weapons which Italians, both men and women, so
often wear concealed about their persons, for the purpose of taking
vengeance, when deemed necessary, on an unsuspecting enemy.
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