“No,” replied the stranger; “it was not permitted me.”
“Thank God!” murmured Beatrice, fervently. “He has one sorrow less. Did he save you?”
“He,” said Edith, “of whom you speak does not know that I am alive, nor do I know where he is. Yet some day we will perhaps meet. And now you must not speak. You will agitate yourself too much. Here you have those who love you. For the one who brought you here is one who would lay down his life for yours, dearest—he is Paolo Langhetti.”
“Langhetti!” said Beatrice. “Oh, God be thanked!”
“And she who has taken you to her heart and home is his sister.”
“His sister Teresa, of whom he used to speak so lovingly? Ah! God is kinder to me than I feared. Ah, me! it is as though I had died and have awaked in heaven.”
“But now I will speak no more, and you must speak no more, for you will only increase your agitation. Rest, and another time you can ask what you please.”
Edith turned away and walked to one of the windows, where she looked out pensively upon the sea.
From this time Beatrice began to recover rapidly. Langhetti’s sister seemed to her almost like an old friend since she had been associated with some of her most pleasant memories. An atmosphere of love was around her: the poor sufferer inhaled the pure and life-giving air, and strength came with every breath.
At length she was able to sit up, and then Langhetti saw her. He greeted her with all the ardent and impassioned warmth which was so striking a characteristic of his impulsive and affectionate nature. Then she saw Despard.