"It was found here last night, after Zorzi had been arrested," said Beroviero. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," Marietta answered, gathering all her courage. "We will talk about it by and by. First, I have something to say to you which is much more important than anything concerning the mantle. Will you sit down, father, and hear me as patiently as you can?"
"I am learning patience to-day," said Beroviero, sitting down in his chair. "I am learning also the meaning of such words as ingratitude, betrayal and treachery, which were never before spoken in my house."
He sighed and leaned back, looking at the wall. Marietta dropped her cloak beside the mantle on the bench and began to walk up and down before him, trying to begin her speech. But she could not find any words.
"Speak, child," said her father. "What has happened? It seems to me that I could bear almost anything now."
She stood still a moment before him, still hesitating. She now saw that he had suffered more than she had suspected, doubtless owing to Zorzi's arrest and disappearance, and she knew that what she meant to tell him would hurt him much more.
"Father," she began at last, with a great effort, "I know that what I am going to say will displease you very, very much. I am sorry—I wish it were not—"
Suddenly her set speech broke down. She fell on her knees and took his hands, looking up beseechingly to his face.
"Forgive me!" she cried. "Oh, for God's sake forgive me! I cannot marry Jacopo Contarini!"
Beroviero had not expected that. He sat upright in the chair, in his amazement, and instinctively tried to draw his hands out of hers, but she held them fast, gazing earnestly up to him. His look was not angry, nor cold, nor did he even seem hurt. He was simply astonished beyond all measure by the enormous audacity of what she said. As yet he did not connect it with anything else.