“Why do you ask that, Signore?”
He turned his face away. It was so much harder than he thought. Must he tell her who he was? Could he not carry with him this one memory? Must he drink this cup of abnegation to its last dregs? The very kindness of silence would be cruelty for her! The seed fate had sown, watered by mystery, would germinate in thorns! He must tell her—tell her now!
The press of maskers flooding the square, circled nearer, and she drew close. Her hand from under her cloak, found his own, suddenly fearful, feeling bold looks upon them.
“Bravo la Fornarina!” rose a jeering cry. An exclamation broke from Gordon’s lips. A woman had burst from the throng like a beautiful embodied storm. Teresa shrank with a sob of dismay at the vision of flashing black eyes and dark hair streaming across jealous brows.
The crowd laughed.
“It is l’Inglese maligno!” said a voice.
Evading Gordon’s arm, with a spring like a tiger’s, the infuriate figure reached the girl, snatching at the veil.
“So he prefers you for his donna!” she sneered savagely. “Let us see, white face!”
The rent gauze dropped to the ground.
Sudden stillness fell. The jests and jeers hushed. Teresa stood motionless, her features frozen to sculpture; a passing cloud had slipped from the moon, and the silvery light above and behind her caught and tangled to a glistening aureole in her amber hair that fell in a mist about her shoulders. The illusion of a halo was instant and awe-inspiring. More than one, gazing, made the sign of the cross.