"No, prince," she said, almost inaudibly. "Even if I loved you I could not be your wife."
He waited while she gained strength to go on, waited with that chivalrous delicacy and patience which distinguished him.
"It is impossible, prince. Think what it is you do. You are asking me to share your rank, your noble name, one who is a stranger to you, of whom you know nothing"—she paused—"who may be anything that is base and unworthy——"
"Oh, stop!" he said, pleadingly; "do I not know that you are all that is good, and true, and pure? Have I not lived in the same house with you, listened to your voice? A man blind to all else could not but see that you are worthy to be the wife of any one, be he whom he may."
"No," she murmured; "it cannot be. Let me go, prince. I will go away, far from Florence, from Italy——"
He stopped her with a sudden gesture, a glance of fear and dread.
"You—you are married?" he said.
Margaret started, then she shook her head.
"I am not married, prince; but there is a dark shadow in my life, a sorrow and a shame."
Her voice faltered and broke, and her hand closed on his with a convulsive grasp.