Was it possible! No, no, it was impossible--it was only an accident. But if he had met her alone in the garden in the dead of night, what would he have said, what would he have done?
Everything swam before him. He passed his hand, which he ought to have held up to his brow, across his eyes.
"What is the matter?" cried Ferdinanda.
The hand dropped, the eyes, which were fixed upon her, shone like flames of fire.
"What is the matter," he murmured--"what is the matter! Ho, non lo so neppur io: una febbre che mi divora; ho, che il sangue mi abbrucia, che il cervello mi si spezza; ho, in fine che non ne posso piu, che sono stanco di questa vita!"
Ferdinanda had tried to stop this outburst, but without success. She trembled from head to foot; the flaming eyes emitted a spark which penetrated to her own heart, and her voice trembled as she said, as quietly as she could:
"You know I cannot understand you when you speak so fast--so wildly."
"You did understand me," murmured the youth.
"I did not understand anything more than I can see for myself--that you are devoured with fever, that your blood boils to suffocation, that your brain is bursting, that you are tired of life; which means, in German, that you stayed too long yesterday at your club, raved too much about your beloved Italy, and consequently drank too much strong Italian wine."
The veins on his white forehead started out in blue lines, and he uttered a hoarse cry like that of a wild beast. He clutched at his breast, where he usually carried his stiletto, but the pocket was empty, and he looked around as if seeking for some weapon.