Goethe did not reply; with an inward tremor that was inexplicable to himself, he gazed at the lovely being whose cheeks were flushed with animation, and whose countenance shone with the holy light of purity and innocence. Her sweet voice still rang in his ear after she had ceased speaking.
“Confess, signore!” repeated Leonora, eagerly.
Goethe gave her a look of infinite mildness and tenderness. “Signora, you, at least, are still in Paradise, and may the avenging angel with the flaming sword never touch the pure brow which the angel of innocence has kissed and sanctified.”
“We have finished, the game is at an end!” cried the imperious voice of Amarilla’s mother. In the bustle which ensued, Leonora, who was listening breathlessly, failed to catch the words which Goethe added in a low tone.
The company had arisen from the table, and formed little groups in various parts of the pavilion. Goethe had stepped to an open window and was looking out at the lake, that glittered in the last rays of the setting sun. Suddenly a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder; he slowly turned and saw Signora Frezzi, Amarilla’s mother, standing at his side. Her countenance was grave, her brow clouded, and the accustomed smile was wanting on her lips.
“Signore Goethe, you are a stranger, and are, of course, not familiar with the usages of our favored land,” said she, in subdued, reproachful tones.
“Have I sinned, signora?” asked he, gayly. “Have I been guilty of an impropriety?”
“Yes, signore, you have, and as Amarilla’s mother, I must say that I cannot suffer the innocent child to be affronted.”
“But, signora,” he asked, in alarm, “how can I have affronted your daughter?”