She spoke boldly and defiantly, her large, full eyes gazing at his with a steadfast and unflinching look, while Gerald held down his head in sorrow and in shame.
Nor was it alone with himself that Gerald was at war, for Marietta had shocked and startled him by qualities he had never suspected in her. In her passion she had declared that her heart was set upon ambitions daring as his own; and, even granting that much of what she said was prompted by wounded pride, there was in her wildly excited glances and her trembling lips the sign of a temperament that knew little of forgiveness. If he was then amazed by discovering Marietta to be different from all he had ever seen her, he was more in love with her than ever.
She had opened the window, and, with her face between her hands, gazed out upon the silent street. Gerald took his place at her side, and thus they remained for some time without a word. A low, faint sigh at last came from the girl, and, placing his arm around her, Gerald drew her gently to him, murmuring softly in her ear:
‘L’onda che mormora,
Tra sponda e sponda;
L’aura che tremola,
Tra fronda e fronda.
E meno instabile,
Del vostro cor.’
She never spoke, but, averting her head still farther from him, screened herself from his view. At last a low, soft murmuring broke from her lips, and she sang, in accents scarcely above her breath, one of those little native songs she was so fond of. It was a wild but plaintive air, sounding like the wayward cadences of one who left her fancy free to give music to the verse, each stanza ending with the words:
‘Non ho più remi,
Non ho più vele,
E al silo talento
Mi porta il mar.’
With a touching tenderness that thrilled through Gerald’s heart she sung, with many a faltering accent, and in a tremulous tone, the simple words:
‘In a lone, frail hark, forsaken,
I float on a nameless sea,
Nor care to what morrow I waken;
I drift where the waves bear me.
‘I look not up to the starry sky,
For I have no course to run,
Nor eagerly wait, as the dawn draws nigh,
To watch for the rising sun.
‘For noon is drear as the night to me,
To-day is as dark as to-morrow:
Forsaken, I float on the nameless sea,
To think and weep over my sorrow.*
‘Oh, Marietta, if thou wouldst not wring my heart, do not sing that sad air,’ cried Gerald, pressing her tenderly to him. ‘I bore it ill in our happiest hours, when all went well and hopefully with us.’
‘It bettor suits the present, then,’ said she calmly; then added, with a sudden energy—‘at all events, it suits my humour!’