. . and he would have deserved it! He will deserve it!--If he is ever
found! Come--we will all sup here together this evening--sorrow
strengthens the bonds of friendship . . . and I will tell you . . ."
He paused, and again the strange far-off look came into his eyes.
"I will tell you--" he went on slowly--"how I found my Angela lying
dead, as I thought--dead at the feet of Christ!"
XXXI.
Meanwhile Florian Varillo had not gone to Naples. He had been turned
back by a spectre evoked from his own conscience--coward fear. He
was on his way to the station when he suddenly discovered that he
had lost the sheath of his dagger. A cold perspiration broke out on
his forehead as this fact flashed upon him. What had he done with
it? Surely he had drawn the weapon out and left the sheath in his
breast pocket as usual--but no!--search as he would, he could not
find it. It must have dropped on the floor of Angela's studio! If
that were so, he would be traced!--most surely traced--as the sheath
was of curious and uncommon workmanship, and many of his friends had
seen it. He had told everybody he was going to Naples, and of course
he would be followed there. Then, he would not go! But he went to
the station as if bent on the journey, and took a ticket for Naples.
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