"Then she died," he said. When he had spoken the three words, he shivered from head to foot, and was silent.
Still Francesca could not speak. The sacrilege of the deed was horrible in itself. To her, who had grown up to look upon Maria Braccio as a holy woman, cut off in her youth by a frightful death, the truth was overwhelmingly awful. She strove within herself to find something upon which she could throw the merest shadow of an extenuation, but she could find nothing.
"You understand now why, as an honourable man, I wished to tell you the truth about myself," he said, speaking almost coldly in the effort he was making at self-control. "I could not ask for your friendship until I had told you."
Francesca turned her white face slowly towards him in the dusk, and her lips moved, but she did not speak. She could not in that first moment find the words she wanted. She felt that she shrank from him, that she never wished to touch his hand again. Doubtless, in time, she might get over the first impression. She wished that he would leave her to think about it.
"Can you ever be my friend now?" he asked gravely.
"Your friend—" she stopped, and shook her head sadly. "I—I am afraid—" she could not go on.
Lord Redin rose slowly to his feet.
"No. I am afraid not," he said.
He waited a moment, but there was no reply.
"May I take you to your carriage?" he asked gently.