My excuse is, the door was already closing behind the Princess.
I knew she had tracked the Prince Camillo and his confessor, and that
these two were within the cottage. I knew nothing of their business,
save that it must be shameful, since she who had detected and would
prevent it chose to hide her knowledge even from Marc'antonio and
Stephanu. Then much rather (you may urge) would she choose to hide
it from me. The objection is a sound one, had I paused to consider
it; but (fortunately or unfortunately, as you may determine) I did
not. She had stepped into peril. The door was closing behind her:
in another couple of seconds it would be bolted again. I sprang for
it, hurled myself in through the entry, and there, pulling myself
erect, stared about me.
Four faces returned my stare; four faces, and all dismayed as though
a live bombshell had dropped through the doorway. To the priest,
whom my impact had flung aside against the wall, I paid no attention.
My eyes fastened themselves on the table at which, with a lantern and
some scattered papers between them, sat two men--the Prince, and a
grey-haired officer in the blue-and-white Genoese uniform.
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