Enrica has risen from the chair. One hand rests on the table for support. Her voice falters as she asks the question. Nobili, every drop of whose blood runs fevered in his veins, turns toward her.
"I am not hurt—a scratch or two—nothing."
"Thank God!" Enrica utters, in a low voice.
Nobili endeavors to approach her. She draws back.
"As I am here"—he speaks with the utmost embarrassment—"here, as you see, by accident"—his voice rests on the words—"I cannot go—"
As Nobili speaks he perceives that Enrica gradually retreats farther from him. The tender delight that had come into her eyes when he first addressed her fades out into a scared look—a look like a defenseless animal expecting to receive a death-wound. Nobili sees and understands the expression.
His heart smites him sorely. Great God!—has he become an object of terror to her?
"Enrica!"—she starts back as Nobili pronounces her name, yet he speaks so softly the sound comes to her almost like a sigh—"Enrica, do not fear me. I will say no word to offend you. I cannot go without asking your pardon. As one who loved you once—as one who loves—" He stops. What is he saying?—"I humbly beseech you to forgive me. Enrica, let me hear you say that you forgive me."
Still Enrica retreats from him, that suffering, saint-like look upon her face he knows so well. Nobili follows her. He kneels at her feet. He kneels at the feet of the woman from whom, not an hour before, he had demanded a separation!
"Say—can you forgive me before I go?"