Slipping
the thing into his pocket, the Prince looked about him, and soon
recognised his bearings,--he was standing about six yards away from
the private back-entrance to his daughter's studio. He walked up to
the door and tried it,--it was fast locked.
"Yes--I remember!--the servants told me--both doors were locked,--
and from this they said the key was gone,--" he muttered, then
paused.
Presently, actuated by a sudden impulse, he turned and walked
swiftly with long impatient strides through the more populated
quarters of Rome towards the Corso, and he had not proceeded very
far in this direction before he heard a frenzied and discordant
shouting which, though he knew it did not yet bear the truth in its
harsh refrain, yet staggered him and made his heart almost stand
still with an agony of premonitory fear.
"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"
"Assassinamento di Angela Sovrani!"
"Morte subito di Angela Sovrani!"
"Assassinamento crudele della bella Sovrani!"
Prince Pietro held his breath in sharp pain, listening. How horrible
was the persistent cry of the newsvendors!--hoarse and shrill--now
near--now far!--
"Morte di Angela Sovrani!"
How horrible!--how horrible! He put his hands to his ears to try and
shut out the din.
Pages:
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705