"I have been cowardly, and base, and bad!" she cried, bending over her clasped hands, and speaking to herself. "I should have said it—I said it long ago, at Bianca's, and I should have said it again—but I was afraid—afraid—oh! afraid!"
Her low voice trembled in anger against herself, in pity for him, in sorrow for them both. She looked up and saw him still motionless. It was as though she had killed him and were sitting beside his body. But he still lived, and might live. For one instant she felt a mad impulse to give him her life, to marry him, not loving him, to save him if she could, to atone for what she had done. But a horrible under-thought told her that it would be but gambling for her freedom with his existence, and that if she did it, she should do it because she felt that he must surely die. Even her simplicity seemed gone. She looked again; he had not moved.
She threw herself upon her knees, beside his great chair, her clasped hands on his thin shoulder, in a sort of agony of despair.
"Speak to me!" she cried. "Forgive me—say that I have not killed you—Gianluca—dear!"
One shadowy hand of his was lifted, and touched hers. It was as cold as though it had lain dead in the dew. She took it quickly and held it fast. He did not turn his head.
"It has been my life," he said, "my whole life."
He did not try to draw away his hand, but let her hold it, if she would.
There was still magic in her touch.
"Forgive me!" she repeated more softly, and her cheek touched the arm of the chair. "Forgive me!"
At last he turned his face very wearily and slowly on the brown silk cushion, and looked at her bent head. Instinctively she raised her hot eyes.
"Forgive you?" He spoke very sorrowfully. "I love you. What is there to forgive? It is not your fault—"