Suddenly conscious of something warmer than a raindrop on her cheek, Isabella started and moved. The music ceased on the instant. She took her shamefaced courage in hand, and entered the arbour.
He rose from the bench on which he had been seated, looking as if he saw an apparition. She smiled at him a little faintly.
“You did not know, monsieur, that this place was sacred to my meditations?”
“I did not know, Madonna. What can I do to expiate such desecration?”
“Not speak in mockery, at least.”
“Ah! Do I?”
“Your eyes betray you, I think. I will be candid with you, monsieur. It is not the first time I have read them so. Is it that you regard your mission with so little seriousness?” He was startled enough—on the point of prevaricating. “Will you not tell me the truth?” she said sincerely.
His brows bent a little.
“Will you have it, Madonna?” he answered in a moment. “See, I entered here, all unguessing of its holiness, to brood alone. The weather, I thought, secured me. But there are others, it seems, who feel its fascination no less. Will you not forgive the innocent sacrilege, and bid me go?”
“Are we, then, so distasteful to you that you must leave us in order to brood alone—on your injuries, perhaps?”