“‘He is my lover.’
“‘Your lover—you can tell me that with no shame upon your cheek! Your lover! Now for a truth did the priest speak well.’
“Again she heard me with indifference, plucking like a petulant child at the strings of her fiddle. I saw that anger would not avail with her; yet, as I live, I had rather that a man had struck me a blow than that she had spoken as she did.
“‘Child,’ said I, when I had been silent a long time, ‘God is witness that I love you. Tell me—who is this man, and how came he here?’
“‘He is Ugo Klun, the son of the woodlander. He sailed often from Zara when Nicolò lived. His hands built me this hut when I had no other home. I had starved but for Ugo, Andrea!’
“‘You are his wife, then?’
“‘He will come at the feast of the Rosary to marry me, if he is free then.’
“‘He has promised that?’
“‘Surely—he has promised it often. It is I who have held back.’
“She spoke very simply, not fearing to look me in the face, excellency. I began to think that I had judged her in haste, and so put another question to her.