"Daughter, he may be trusted, when it is in such a case; he is safe and sure. I have reason to know him."
"Name your reasons, father."
The Confessor was silent, and his countenance assumed a very peculiar character; it was more terrible than usual, and overspread with a dark, cadaverous hue of mingled anger and guilt. The Marchesa started involuntarily as, passing by a window, the evening gleam that fell there, discovered it; and for the first time she wished, that she had not committed herself so wholly to his power. But the die was now cast; it was too late to be prudent; and she again demanded his reasons.
"No matter," said Schedoni, in a stifled voice——"she dies!"
"By his hands?" asked the Marchesa, with strong emotion. "Think, once more, father."
They were both again silent and thoughtful. The Marchesa, at length, said, "Father, I rely upon your integrity and prudence;" and she laid a very flattering emphasis upon the word integrity. "But I conjure you to let this business be finished quickly, suspense is to me the purgatory of this world, and not to trust the accomplishment of it to a second person." She paused, and then added, "I would not willingly owe so vast a debt of obligation to any other than yourself."
"Your request, daughter, that I would not confide this business to a second person," said Schedoni, with displeasure, "cannot be accorded to. Can you suppose, that I, myself"——
"Can I doubt that principle may both prompt and perform the deed," interrupted the Marchesa with quickness, and anticipating his meaning, while she retorted upon him his former words. "Why should we hesitate to do what we judge to be right?"
The silence of Schedoni alone indicated his displeasure, which the Marchesa immediately understood.
"Consider, good father," she added significantly, "how painful it must be to me, to owe so infinite an obligation to a stranger, or to any other than so highly valued a friend as yourself."