“May I read it first?”
He shook his head. “It is not worthy.”
She looked at him seriously, striving to translate his thought, and with a sudden impulse, stooped and picked up the roll. “Do not destroy it,” she said; “one day you will finish it—more worthily.”
He hesitated a moment, then thrust the manuscript into his pocket and followed her to the bench where they had sat the night Tita had led him to the columned gate, and how many gilded days since! With what words should he tell her what he must say?
He saw that she held in her hand a small rough fragment of stone.
“What is that?” he questioned, trying to speak lightly. “A jewel?”
A change passed over her face and she raised the stone to her lips. “Yes,” she answered; “do you not recognize it?”
As he looked at it curiously, she added: “It was in your pocket that day on the convent hill. You never missed it, did you? The kriss”—she shuddered as she spoke—“struck it. See—here is the mark. It saved your life.”
Wondering, he took it from her hand. “Strange!” he said, as he handed it back. “It is a piece of the tomb of Juliet which I got long ago in Verona.”
“Juliet?” she repeated, and dropped the stone on the bench between them, coloring. “Did you—care for her?”