An expression of despair comes into Nobili's bright face. How can he answer her? How can he satisfy her when he himself has shaken her trust? Alas! would the golden past never come again? The past, tinted with the passion of ardent summer?
"Believe me?" he cries, in a tone of wildest passion. "Can you ask me?"
As he speaks he leans over her. Love is in his voice—his eyes—his whole attitude. Would she not understand him? Would she reject him?
Enrica draws back—she raises her hand in protest.
"Let me again"—Nobili is following her closely—"let me implore your forgiveness of my unmanly conduct."
She presses her hands to her bosom as if in pain, but not a sound comes to her lips.
"Believe me," he urges, "I have been driven mad by the marchesa! It is my only excuse."
"Am I?" Enrica answers. "Have I not suffered enough from my aunt? What had she to do between you and me? Did I love you less because she hated you? Listen, Nobili"—Enrica with difficulty commands her voice—"from the first time we met in the cathedral I gave myself to you—you—you only."
"But, Enrica—love—you consented to leave me. You sent Fra Pacifico to say so."
The thought that Enrica had so easily resigned him still rankled in
Nobili's heart. Spite of himself, there is bitterness in his tone.