The bridge
was deserted. His black figure rose up erect, motionless, and
spectral, with the white still light falling solemnly all around
it. Standing so for some minutes, his first movement was to drop
his hand angrily on the parapet of the bridge. He then turned
round slowly in the direction by which the two women had walked
away.
"Donna Brigida," he said, "I will lay you the price of fifty new
dresses that Fabio d'Ascoli never marries again!"
He set his face once more toward the studio, and walked on
without stopping until he arrived at the master-sculptor's door.
"Marry again?" he thought to himself, as he rang the bell. "Donna
Brigida, was your first failure not enough for you? Are you going
to try a second time?"
Luca Lomi himself opened the door. He drew Father Rocco hurriedly
into the studio toward a single lamp burning on a stand near the
partition between the two rooms.
"Have you heard anything of our poor child?" he asked. "Tell me
the truth! tell me the truth at once!"
"Hush! compose yourself. I have heard," said Father Rocco, in
low, mournful tones.
Luca tightened his hold on the priest's arm, and looked into his
face with breathless, speechless eagerness.
"Compose yourself," repeated Father Rocco. "Compose yourself to
hear the worst. My poor Luca, the doctors have given up all
hope."
Luca dropped his brother's arm with a groan of despair.
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