Polia raised her eyes from the manuscript to look at the monk. Francesco's pallor, the bloody halo girding his eyes worn out with crying, the shaking of his livid hands hanging loosely, revealed to her what was happening in the heart of her lover. She smiled proudly.
"You have heard," she said, "of my forthcoming marriage with prince Antonio Grimani?"
"Yes, madam," replied Francesco.
"And what did you think, Francesco, of this alliance?"
"That no man is worthy to contract such an alliance with you, but that the prince Antonio had more rights than anyone, and that the marriage appeared to be what Venice wanted… and what you yourself wanted. May it always bring you happiness!"
"I refused it this morning," said Polia.
Francesco looked at her as if to seek in Polia's eyes if her mouth had not betrayed her thought.
"You know better than anyone," Polia went on, "that I have pledged my troth elsewhere and that my decision to do so is irrevocable. But I must forgive your suspicions for yours is guaranteed by the oath that binds you to an altar and I have never given you a guarantee like that. Listen, Francesco. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day you made your first vows, and it will be during the last morning mass that you will render them even more binding and more sacred by renewing them before the Lord. Have you, now a year has passed, changed your way of thinking about the nature of this sacrifice and the need for it?"
"No, no, Polia!" cried Francesco, falling to his knees.
"It is enough," continued Polia. "My thinking has not changed either. I shall be present tomorrow at the last morning mass, and I shall support with all the strength of my soul the vow that you will repeat then, so that henceforth you will know, Francesco, that between the heart of Polia and inconstancy there are also perjury and sacrilege."