Enrica clasped his hand, looked at it, sighed, pressed it between both of hers, sighed again, then raised it to her lips.
"Dear hand," she said, "how it is burnt! But for this hand, I should be nothing now but a little heap of ashes in the tower. Nobili"—her tone suddenly changed—"Nobili, I will try to love life now that you have given it to me." Her voice rang out like music, and her telltale eyes caught his, with a glance as passionate as his own. "Count Marescotti," she said, absently, as giving utterance to a passing thought—"Count Marescotti told me, only a week ago, that I was born to be unhappy. He said he read it in my eyes. I believed him then—not now—not now."
Why, she could not have explained, but, as the count's name passed her lips, Enrica was sorry she had mentioned it. Nobili noted this. He gave an imperceptible start, and drew back a little from her.
"Do you know Count Marescotti?" Enrica asked him, timidly.
"I know him by sight," was Nobili's reply. "He is a mad fellow—a republican. Why does he come to Lucca?"
Enrica shook her head.
"I do not know," she answered, still confused.
"Where did you meet him, Enrica?"
She blushed, and dropped her eyes. As she gave him no answer, he asked another question, gazing down upon her earnestly:
"How did Count Marescotti come to know what your eyes said?"