After this, he, too, was silent. Rising from his knees, he leaned against the trunk of the bay-tree and contemplated her steadfastly. There was a strange mixture of passion and of curiosity in his mobile face. If she would not tell him, could he not rend her secret from her?
Trenta, seated at the opposite side of the platform, observed them as they stood side by side, half concealed by the foliage—observed them with benign satisfaction. It was all as it should be; his mission would be easy. It was clear they understood each other. He believed at that very moment Enrica was receiving the confession of Marescotti's love; the confusion of her looks was conclusive. The cavaliere's whole endeavor was, at that moment, to keep Baldassare quiet; he rejoiced to see that he was gently yielding to the influence of the heat, and nodding at his side.
"Count," said Enrica, looking up and endeavoring to break a silence which had become painful, "if I have inspired you with any interest—"
She hesitated.
"If you have inspired me?" ejaculated Marescotti, reproachfully, not moving his eyes off her.
"I can hardly believe it," she added; "but, if it be so, speak to me in the voice of poetry. Tell me your thoughts."
"Yes," exclaimed the count, clasping his hands; "I have been longing to do so ever since I first saw you. Will you permit it? If so, give me paper and pencil, that I may write."
Enrica had neither. Rising from the ground, she crossed over to where Trenta sat, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the roofs of his native city. Fortunately, after diving into various pockets, he found a pencil and the fly-leaf of a letter. Marescotti took them and retreated to the farther end of the tower; Enrica leaned against the wall beside the cavaliere.
In a few minutes the count joined them; he returned the pencil with a bow to the cavaliere. The sonnet was already written on the fly-leaf of the letter.
"Oh!" cried Enrica, "give me that paper, I know it will tell me my fate. Give it to me. Count, do not refuse me." Her look, her manner, was eager—imploring. As the count drew back, she endeavored to seize the paper from his hand. But Marescotti, holding the paper above his head, in one moment had crushed it in his fingers, and, rushing forward, he flung it over the battlements.