‘Even like the fallen angels!’ she cried desperately. ‘They fell by pride, but not by this! Are there not temptations for heart and soul and mind enough to try us, to raise us up if we overcome, to damn us if we yield? Enough to send us to hell or heaven—without this? O God, that what Thou hast made in Thine own image should be so vile, so vile, so vile!’
Her despair was real; her cry came from an almost breaking heart. Castiglione came to her now and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.
‘Maria! Look at me, dear! Don’t be afraid!’
She raised her head timidly from her hands and turned her eyes slowly to him, more than half afraid. But when she saw that his own were calm and grave again, she gave one little cry of relief and buried her face upon his shoulder, clinging to him with both hands; and her touch did not stir his pulse now.
‘No, I’m not afraid of you!’ she softly cried. ‘It was only a moment, dear, only one dreadful moment, for I trust you with myself as I would trust you with my soul! Sometimes—’ she looked up lovingly to his face—‘sometimes each of us must be brave for both, you know. As we are now, you might even kiss me once and I should fear nothing!’
He smiled and bent down and kissed her cheek; and there was no thought in him that he would not have told her. But then he gently took her hands from his shoulder and made her sit down as they had sat before.
‘That was not wrong, was it?’ she asked, with a happy smile.
‘No,’ he answered quietly, ‘there was no wrong in that, neither to you nor to the others.’
‘I’m glad,’ she answered, ‘so glad! But it would not be right to do it often.’
‘No, not often. Not for a long time again.’