. . . The crowns were surprisingly alike, even to the stones around
the band--and I bethought me of the jeweller I had met in the alley.
But, feeling around the rim of each, I recognized the true one by a
dent it had taken against the _Gauntlet's_ ballast. Quick as
thought, then, I whipped it under my arm, ran back to Bianca, and
thrust it under her cloak as I bent over her.
She lay in a cold swoon. I could not leave her in this horrible
place. . . .
I was lifting her to carry her out into the alley, when--in the
workshop or beyond it--a key grated in a lock; and I raised myself
erect as the Prince Camillo came through the pavilion, humming a
careless tune of opera.
"Hola!" he broke off and called, "Hola, padre, where the devil are
you hiding? And where's the pretty Bianca? . . . O, confusion seize
your puss-in-the-corner! I shall be jealous, I tell you--and br-r-h!
what a mistral of a draught!"
He came into the room rubbing his hands, half scolding, half
laughing, with the drops of melted snow yet shining on his furred
robe from his walk across the garden. I saw him halt on the
threshold and look about him, prepared to call "Hola!" once again.
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