And no thought of impurity came to him on beholding that lily, snowy whiteness.

All candour and all nobility as she was, that virgin shocked him no more than some sculptured masterpiece of genius.
"Here I am, my Dario, here I am." She had lain herself down beside the spouse whom she had chosen, she had clasped the dying man whose arms only had enough strength left to fold themselves around her.

Death was stealing him from her, but she would go with him; and again she murmured: "My Dario, here I am." And at that moment, against the wall at the head of the bed, Pierre perceived the escutcheon of the Boccaneras, embroidered in gold and coloured silks on a groundwork of violet velvet.

There was the winged dragon belching flames, there was the fierce and glowing motto "_Bocca nera, Alma rossa_" (black mouth, red soul), the mouth darkened by a roar, the soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love.

And behold! all that old race of passion and violence with its tragic legends had reappeared, its blood bubbling up afresh to urge that last and adorable daughter of the line to those terrifying and prodigious nuptials in death.