“Leave me—leave me at once,” said she, in a mere whisper. “If you do not leave me, I will declare aloud who you are.”
“Who we are; don't forget yourself,” muttered he.
“For that I care not. I am ready.”
“For mercy's sake, Loo, do not,” cried he, as she lifted her hand towards the strings of her mask. “I will go. You shall never see me more. I came here to make the one last reparation I owe you, to give you up your letters, and say good-bye forever.”
“That you never did,—never!” cried she, passionately. “You came because you thought how, in the presence of this crowd, the terror of exposure would crush my woman's heart, and make me yield to any terms you pleased.”
“If I swear to you by all that I believe is true—”
“You never did believe; your heart rejected belief. When I said I knew you, I meant it all: I do know you. I know, besides, that when the scaffold received one criminal, it left another, and a worse, behind. For many a year you have made my life a hell. I would not care to go on thus; all your vengeance and all the scorn of the world would be light compared to what I wake to meet each morning, and close my eyes to, as I sleep at night.”
“Listen to me, Loo, but for one moment. I do not want to justify myself. You are not more wretched than I am,—utterly, irretrievably wretched!”
“Where are the letters?” said she, in a low whisper.
“They are here,—in Florence.”