Her pulses began to race. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. And yet, she would be easy prey in her present state of mind to any plausible, attractive scoundrel. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. A little darling? Lord in heaven, he had taken leave of his senses. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle,—the floor deluged with blood,—various articles of furniture upset,—papers scattered about,—the murdered man's cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore,—his hat, crushed and similarly stained,—his sword,—the ensanguined cloth,—with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed.
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