He had not expected any public outcry--not so
soon--but ill news travels fast, and no doubt the very servants of
his own household were responsible for having, in the extremity of
their terror, given away the report of Angela's death. The terrible
shouts were like so many cruel blows on his brain,--yet--half-
reeling with the shock of them, he still went on his way,--straight
on to the house and studio of Florian Varillo. There, he rang the
bell loudly and impatiently. A servant opened the door in haste, and
stared aghast at the tall old man with the white hair and blazing
eyes, who was wrapped in a dark cloak, the very folds of which
seemed to tremble with the suppressed rage of the form it enveloped.
"Il Principe Souvrani!" he stammered feebly, falling back a little
from the threshold.
"Where is your master?" demanded Sovrani.
"Eccellenza, he has gone to Naples!"
"When did he leave?"
"But two hours ago, Eccellenza!"
Prince Pietro held up the dagger-sheath he had just found.
"This--belongs--to--him--does it not?" he asked slowly, detaching
his words with careful directness.
The man answered readily and at once.
"Yes, Eccellenza!"
Sovrani uttered a terrible oath.
"Let me pass!"
The servant made a gesture of protest.
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