Their eyes met fixedly, plunging into one another's souls.

All began afresh in their minds, Destiny on the march, Santobono encountered with his little basket, the drive across the melancholy Campagna, the conversation about poison while the little basket was gently rocked on the priest's knees; then, in particular, the sleepy _osteria_, and the little black hen, so suddenly killed, lying on the ground with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak.
And next there was that splendid ball at the Buongiovanni mansion, with all its _odore di femina_ and its triumph of love: and finally, before the Palazzo Boccanera, so black under the silvery moon, there was the man who lighted a cigar and went off without once turning his head, allowing dim Destiny to accomplish its work of death.

Both of them, Pierre and Prada, knew that story and lived it over again, having no need to recall it aloud in order to make certain that they had fully penetrated one another's soul.
Pierre did not immediately answer the old man.

"Oh!" he murmured at last, "there were frightful things, yes, frightful things." "No doubt--that is what I suspected," resumed Orlando.

"You can tell us all.