‘Balduccio,’ she went on earnestly, ‘it has lifted us already. It has made you live a better life than other men, though you do not believe in God. And though it made me a coward for a long time, it has given me strength to be brave at last, now that we have met again, strength to tell you the truth, strength to ask your forgiveness! If it has done all that already, what will it not do hereafter, if we keep our promise?’
The deep and fearless light was in her dark eyes now, and she spoke in a heavenly inspiration of purity and peace. Castiglione watched her with a sort of awe which he had never felt in his life. That was a brave, high instinct in him that answered her call; it was the instinct that would have responded if he had been chosen to lead the forlorn hope in a fight all but lost.
‘You are a saint,’ he said. ‘I am not. But I will try to follow if you will only lead the way.’
‘No, dear, I am no saint,’ she answered.
He started at the loving word she had scarcely ever used with him, and she saw his movement and understood.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘It is the truth, and we are not the less safe for saying that we love, now that we have promised. No, I am not a saint. You have been better than I in all these years, for I have been unjust to you, but you have borne it patiently and you have loved me still. That is what I mean when I say that our love can lift us up. Do you see? Only—we must not forget the others——’
She paused.
‘Montalto,’ said Castiglione gravely. ‘I understand.’
‘My husband and my son,’ Maria said. ‘We owe them a terrible debt.’