Rousing himself, he went to the door. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. She told him the story of her parents, her marriage to Iovelli, the loss of her baby, the kidnapping after the miscarriage. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. Yon must be mine to-night.
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