Enrica listened to him in painful silence; his words sounded prophetic.
"To love and to suffer; but, loving once"—again the count was speaking, and his voice enchained her by its sweetness—"to love forever. Where shall the man be found pure enough to dare to accept such love as you can bestow? By Heavens!" he added, and his voice fell to a whisper, and his black eyes seemed to penetrate into her very soul, "you love already. I read it in the depths of those heavenly eyes, in the shadow that already darkens that soft brow, in the dreamy, languid air that robs you of your youth. You love—is it possible that you love—?"
He stopped before the question was finished—before the name was uttered. A spasm, as if wrung from him by sharp bodily pain, passed over his features as he asked this question, never destined to be answered. No one but Enrica had heard it. An indescribable terror seized her; from pale she grew deadly white; her eyelids dropped, her lips trembled. Tears gathered in Marescotti's eyes as he gazed at her, but he dared not complete the question.
"If you have guessed my secret, do not—oh! do not betray me!"
She said this so faintly that the sound came to him like a whisper from the rustling bay-leaves.
"Never!" he responded in a low, earnest tone—"never!"
She believed him implicitly. With that look, that voice, who could doubt him?
"I have cause to suffer," she replied with a sigh, not venturing to meet his eyes—"to suffer and to wait. But my aunt—"
She said no more; her head fell on her bosom, her arms dropped to her side, she sighed deeply.
"May I be at hand to shield you!" was his answer.