It was some moments before he could reply. Earth and sky seemed to meet; the ripple of the river was as a roar of water in his ears. His first impulse had been a fierce one. He, worn, haggard, heartbroken; she, brighter, fairer than ever, singing on the banks of the sunny Arno. Then he looked steadily at her.
"No," he said slowly; "I have not come to kill you; I do not wish to kill you. Death could not deal out such torture as your hands have dealt out to me."
"Poor Earle," she said pityingly; but the pity was more than he could bear.
"I am sent here," he continued, "by those who have a right to send. I do not need pity."
But she looked into his changed face.
"Poor Earle," she repeated; and the tone of her voice was so kind that for one moment he shuddered with dread.
"I must speak to you, Doris. I have been long in finding you——"
"Earle," she interrupted, "what has brought you here? I am not surprised. I have always felt that, sooner or later, I should see you. What has brought you here?"
"I have something to tell you," he replied. "I would have traveled the wide world over, but I would never have returned without seeing you."
"But why, of all other places, did you think of Florence?" she asked.