Already the youthful blood of Marco Fiore coursed in his veins, and the giddiness of passion, which for some time had not overcome his soul, mastered him.
“As at first,” he murmured, in a subdued voice.
“It is true you don’t want to lose me. Say it! Say it!”
“I would prefer to lose my soul.”
“You have never thought of leaving me?”
“Never.”
“Am I always your lady?”
“My lady, you, and you only.”
“Oh, Marco!” she sighed, letting her face fall on his breast, yielding to an emotion which was too violent.
He had become very pale. His eyebrows were knotted in sad thought. He took her face, covered with tears, and wiped it with his handkerchief, and asked her with a voice, where already suspicion was pressing, and where jealousy was hissing insidiously—