"I can only say what I have said before," she answered. "My father sent for me this afternoon, I should think about three o'clock. He spoke of my marriage, which he has been contemplating some time. I answered that I would not marry Prince Frangipani's son, because—" she hesitated.
"Because?"
"Because I love another man," she continued almost defiantly. "A man who is not a prince but an artist."
A murmur of horror ran round the little group of the girl's relations.
She glanced at them scornfully.
"I am not ashamed of it," she said. "But I would not tell you unless it were necessary—to make you understand how angry he was. I forgot—he had called my mother, and she was there. He sent her away. Then he came back and struck me! I put my handkerchief to my mouth because it bled. He snatched it away and threw it on the floor. He took me by the arm—he was standing—I wrenched myself out of his hands and ran away, because I was afraid of him. I did not see him again. Beyond this I know nothing."
Giovanni was struck by the concise way in which Faustina told her story. It was true that she had told it for the second time, but, while believing entirely in her innocence, he saw that her manner might easily have made a bad impression upon the prefect. When she had done, she stood still a moment. Then her hands dropped by her sides and she shrank back again to Corona who put her arm round the girl's waist and supported her.
"I must say that my sister's tale seems clearly true," said the feeble voice of Ascanio Bellegra. His thin, fair beard seemed to tremble as he moved his lips.
"Seems!" cried Corona indignantly. "It is true! How can any one be so mad as to doubt it?"
"I do not deny its truth," said the prefect, speaking in the air. "I only say that the appearances are such as to oblige me to take steps—"
"If you lay a hand on her—" began Giovanni.