"I would like you to tell me who it is whom you love so dearly—is she good and beautiful and sensible, too, as you said?"
"She is all that, Excellency." His voice shook, not as it seemed to her with weakness, but with strength.
"Tell me her name."
Ruggiero was silent for some moments, and his head was bent forward. He seemed to be breathing hard and not able to speak.
"Her name is Beatrice," he said at last, in a low, firm tone as though he were making a great effort.
"Really!" exclaimed the young girl. "That is my name, too. I suppose that is why you did not want to tell me. But you must not be afraid of me, Ruggiero. If there is anything I can do to help you, I will do it. Is it money you need? I will give you some."
"It is not money."
"What is it, then?"
"Love—and a miracle."
His answers came lower and lower, and he looked at the ground, suffering as he had never suffered and yet indescribably happy in speaking with her, and in seeing the interest she felt in him. But his brain was beginning to reel. He did not know what he might say next.