Pietro opened his lips and shut them without speaking. He glanced at the passionate white face of the woman in the picture before he answered.
"I do not think so," he said. "But I make no pretence of bravery. Have you done?"
"No. You make a pretence of other things if not of courage. You pretend that you will not quarrel now because of the promise you gave."
"It is true."
"I do not believe you."
"I am sorry for it," answered Pietro.
"And do you mean to tell me that the promise binds us? If you had acted as a man should, if you had led a life that showed the slightest respect for that memory, it might be binding on me still."
"I think it is." Ghisleri was trembling with anger from head to foot, but his voice was still steady.
"I do not," answered Gianforte, scornfully. "If she were here to judge us, if she could see that the man who was loved to the last by Bianca Corleone—God give her rest!—would live down to such a level, would live to throw himself at the feet of a Maddalena dell' Armi—ah, I have touched you now!—she would—"
Ghisleri's face was livid.