As a shot that strikes a brightly-plumaged bird full in its softly-feathered breast, so did these dreadful words strike Enrica. There is a faint, low cry, she has fallen upon the floor!
The marchesa did not move, but, looking at her where she lay, she slowly shook her head. Not so the cavaliere. He rushed forward, and raised her tenderly in his arms. The tears streamed down his aged cheeks.
"Take her away!" cried the marchesa; "take her away! She has broken my heart!"
CHAPTER IX.
WHAT CAME OF IT.
When Cavaliere Trenta returned, after he had led away Enrica, and consigned her to Teresa, he was very grave. As he crossed the room toward the marchesa, he moved feebly, and leaned heavily on his stick. Then he drew a chair opposite to her, sat down, heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to her face.
The marchesa had not moved. She did not move now, but sat the picture of hard, haughty despair—a despair that would gnaw body and soul, yet give no sigh. But the cavaliere was now too much absorbed by Enrica's sufferings to affect even to take much heed of the marchesa.
"This is a very serious business," he began, abruptly. "You may have to answer for that girl's life. I shall be the first to witness against you."
Never in her life had the marchesa heard Cesare Trenta deliver himself of such a decided censure upon her conduct. His wheedling, coaxing manner was all gone. He was neither the courtier nor the counselor. He neither insinuated nor suggested, but spoke bluntly out bold words, and those upon a subject she esteemed essentially her own. Even in the depth of her despondency it made a certain impression upon her.
She roused herself and glared at him, but there was no shrinking in his face. Trenta's clear round eyes, so honest and loyal in their expression, seemed to pierce her through and through. She fancied, too, that he contemplated her with a sort of horror.