At the hour when Silvio, with despair in his soul, led the unhappy
Camilla out of the Colosseum towards her father's house, not a word
passed between them. He regarded her with tender pity, having loved her
ardently, and feeling that she was comparatively innocent, being, as she
was, the victim of deception and violence.
Onward they went in silence and sadness. Silvio had abstained from
visiting her home since it was so suddenly deserted by Camilla, and as
they neared it a presentiment of new sorrowing took possession of him.
Turning out of the high road into a lane, their meditations were broken
in upon by the barking of a dog. "Fido! Fido!" cried Camilla, with more
joyousness than she had experienced for many many months; but, as if
remembering suddenly her abasement, she checked her quickened step, and,
casting down her eyes, stood motionless, overwhelmed with shame. Silvio
had loved her too dearly even to hate her for her guilt. Or if he had
ever felt bitterly against her, her sudden appearance that night, wild
with remorse and misery, had brought back something of the old feeling,
and he would have defended her against a whole army. He had therefore
sustained her very tenderly through the walk from the Colosseum, and
had been full of generous thoughts, although silent; while she, timidly
leaning on his strong arm, had now and then learned by a timid glance,
that he was pitying and not abominating her by that silence.
But when she stopped and trembled at the sound of the house-dog's bark,
Silvio, fearing a return of a paroxysm of madness, touched her arm,
saying, for the first time, "Come, Camilla, it is your little Fido
welcoming you; he has recognized your footstep."
Scarcely had he uttered these words before the dog itself appeared.
After pausing a moment in his rush, as if uncertain, he sprang towards
Camilla, barking, and jumping, and making frantic efforts to lick her
face and hands. Such a reception would have touched a heart of stone.
Camilla burst into tears as she stooped to caress the affectionate
animal; but nature was exhausted, and she fell senseless on the damp
ground. Silvio, after covering her with his mantle, to protect her from
the cold morning air--for the dawn had already begun to break--went to
seek her father.
The barking of the dog had aroused the household, so that the young
hunter perceived, as he approached, a boy standing on the threshold,
looking cautiously around, as if distrusting so early a visitor.
"Marcellino," he shouted; whereat the boy, recognizing the friendly
familiar voice, ran to him, and threw his arms around his neck.
"Where is your godfather, my boy?" Silvio asked; but receiving no
response save tears, he said again, "Where is Marcello?"
"He is dead," replied the sobbing child. "Dead!" exclaimed Silvio,
sinking upon a stone, overcome with surprise and emotion. Very soon the
tears rolled down his masculine cheeks, and mingled with those of the
child, who lay upon his bosom.
"O God!" he cried aloud; "canst thou permit the desires of a monster to
cause such suffering to so many and to such precious human creatures?
Did I not feel the hope that the day of my beloved country's release
from priestly tyranny is at hand I would plunge my dagger into my
breast, and not endure to see this daylight break!" Recovering himself
with a violent effort, he returned, accompanied by Marcellino, to
Camilla, whom he found in an uneasy sleep. "Poor girl, poor ruined
orphan," murmured Silvio, as he gazed upon her pale and wasted beauty;
"why should I arouse you? You will but awake too soon to a life of
tears, misery, and vain repentance!"