I took it to Betty, who told me she knew nothing about bills, and begged me to say nothing more about that infamous fellow. She then said, in a voice of which I can give no idea,—
“For pity’s sake do not abandon a poor girl, more worthy of compassion than blame!”
I promised her again to have all a father’s care for her, and soon after we proceeded on our journey.
The poor girl fell asleep, and I followed her example. We were awoke by the vetturino who informed us, greatly to our astonishment, that we were at Monterosi. We had slept for six hours, and had done eighteen miles.
We had to stay at Monterosi till four o’clock, and we were glad of it, for we needed time for reflection.
In the first place I asked about the wretched deceiver, and was told that he had made a slight meal, paid for it, and said he was going to spend the night at La Storta.
We made a good dinner, and Betty plucking up a spirit said we must consider the case of her infamous betrayer, but for the last time.
“Be a father to me,” said she; “do not advise but command; you may reckon on my obedience. I have no need to give you any further particulars, for you have guessed all except the horror with which the thought of my betrayer now inspires me. If it had not been for you, he would have plunged me into an abyss of shame and misery.”
“Can you reckon on the Englishman forgiving you?”
“I think so.”