She clung to his neck, to his hands, to his feet; she made his
farewell an unspeakable agony. At last he laid her upon her
couch, sobbing and shrieking like a child in an extremity of
physical anguish. But he did not blame her. Her
impetuosities, her unreasonable extravagances, were a part of
her nature, her race, and her character. He did not expect a
weak, excitable woman to become suddenly a creature of flame
and steel.
But it was a wonderful rest to his exhausted body and soul to
turn from her to Antonia. She led him quietly to his chair by
the parlor fire. She gave him food and wine. She listened
patiently, but with a living sympathy, to his wrong. She
endorsed, with a clasp of his hand and a smile, his purpose.
And she said, almost cheerfully:
"You have not given up all your arms, father. When I first
heard of the edict, I hid in my own room the rifle, the powder
and the shot, which were in your study. Paola has knives in
the stable; plenty of them. Get one from him."
Good news is a very relative thing. This information made the
doctor feel as if all were now easy and possible. The words
he said to her, Antonia never forgot. They sang in her heart
like music, and led her on through many a difficult path. The
conversation then turned upon money matters, and Antonia
received the key of his study, and full directions as to the
gold and papers secreted there.
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