"It was this. Bastianello had a thought. He imagined to himself that I loved Teresina—I!—"
Ruggiero broke off in the sentence and looked away. His voice shook with the deep vibration that sometimes pleased Beatrice. He paused a moment and then went on.
"I, who have quite other thoughts. And so he said with himself, 'Ruggiero loves and is afraid to speak, but I will speak for him.' But it was honest of him, Signorina, for he loved her himself. And so he asked her for me first. But she would not. And then, between one word and another, they found out that they loved. And I am very glad, for Teresina is a good girl as she showed the other day in the garden, and the little boy of the Son of the Fool saw it when she threw the gold at that man's feet—"
He stopped again, suddenly realising what he was saying. But Beatrice, quick to suspect, saw the look of pained embarrassment in his face and almost guessed the truth. She grew pale by degrees.
"What man?" she asked shortly.
Ruggiero turned his head and looked away from her, gazing out to seaward.
"What was the man's name?" she asked again with the stern intonation that anger could give her voice.
Still Ruggiero would not speak. But his white face told the truth well enough.
"On what day was it?" she enquired, as though she meant to be answered.
"It was the day when you talked with me about my name, Signorina."