'Have you told me the whole truth?' she asked suddenly, after a long silence.
'Of course I have told you the truth,' he answered, with a half-startled, nervous intonation.
'You have not always done so,' said she, leaning back in her chair. 'But I do not see why you should conceal anything from me now.'
'You will see it all in the account of the trial.'
'It is terrible!' she exclaimed, realising once more what it all meant. 'Terrible, terrible,' she repeated, passing her hand over her eyes. 'Only yesterday he was here, sitting beside me, telling me—'
She stopped short.
'Yes, I heard what he told you,' said Tebaldo, in an altered voice. 'It is of no use to go over it.'
'I was fond of him,' she answered. 'I was very fond of him. I have often told you so. It is dreadful to think that we shall never see him again—never hear his voice—'
Her eyes filled with tears, for beyond the first horror of his death there was the sadness. He had been so young, so full of life and vitality. She could hardly understand that he was gone. The tears welled over slowly and rolled down her smooth cheeks, unheeded for a few moments.
'I wish I knew the truth,' she said, rousing herself, and drying her eyes.