And so, when I came in, he dug his knife
into my shoulder, there."
Forthwith she again leant over him, quivering, and gazing into the depths
of his eyes: "But who was the man, who was he?" she asked. Then, as he,
in a yet more weary way, began to stammer that he didn't know, that the
man had fled into the darkness before he could recognise him, she raised
a terrible cry: "It was Prada! it was Prada, confess it, I know it
already!" And, quite delirious, she went on: "I tell you that I know it!
Ah! I would not be his, and he is determined that we shall never belong
to one another. Rather than have that he will kill you on the day when I
am free to be your wife! Oh! I know him well; I shall never, never be
happy. Yes, I know it well, it was Prada, Prada!"
But sudden energy upbuoyed the wounded man, and he loyally protested:
"No, no, it was not Prada, nor was it any one working for him. That I
swear to you. I did not recognise the man, but it wasn't Prada--no, no!"
There was such a ring of truth in Dario's words that Benedetta must have
been convinced by them. But terror once more overpowered her, for the
hand she held was suddenly growing soft, moist, and powerless. Exhausted
by his effort, Dario had fallen back, again fainting, his face quite
white and his eyes closed. And it seemed to her that he was dying.
Distracted by her anguish, she felt him with trembling, groping hands:
"Look, look, Monsieur l'Abbe!" she exclaimed.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142