They exchanged glances of dismay.

They hurried into the house; they hastened into the room.

Pisani turned, and his look, full of ghastly intelligence and stern command, awed them back.

The black mantilla, the faded laurel-leaf, lay there before him.

Viola's heart guessed all at a single glance; she sprung to his knees; she clasped them,--"Father, father, _I_ am left thee still!" The wail ceased,--the note changed; with a confused association--half of the man, half of the artist--the anguish, still a melody, was connected with sweeter sounds and thoughts.