“‘How came it, then, that he wished to send you to a convent?’
“‘It was because of Ugo—of Ugo Klun, who was to take me to Vienna. He is my husband, you know.’
“She said it, excellency, with no more concern than if Ugo had been her dog.
“‘Your husband, girl!’ cried the Count, angry at her indifference; ‘you have a husband, then?’
“‘I stood with Ugo before the altar upon the island Incoronata,’ she answered, playing with the bracelets upon her wrist; ‘he called me wife, and the priest blessed me. We rode that day to the mountains, for I feared to go to Sebenico to the Sisters, and Ugo feared that they would make a hussar of him. It was to the hut of Orio the shepherd that he carried me, and there I was ill with the fever. When I awoke Ugo had gone, and no one was with me in the hut. Then I tried to find him in the hills, and I ate all the bread, and the road was hot, and the sun burnt my face, and—oh! it would have been good to die! You will not send me back to Zlarin, Herr Count?’
“She asked him pitifully, her black eyes raised to his, and yet he could not promise her.
“‘That is for your husband to say. First we must find him, child. You would wish that, of course?’
“Her answer astonished him.
“‘Herr Count,’ she cried, clinging to his knees, ‘how shall I tell you—the Blessed Mother give me words! Ugo is my friend, he has been good to me. I thought that we should be friends always, that he would take me to the great city; but when I was with him in the hut and he put his arm upon my neck and burnt my lips with kisses, I knew that it could never be, that God had meant it otherwise. Oh, his kisses hurt me; I shuddered at his touch—I, who wished to thank him and to be his friend. Herr Count, blame me not; we cannot give these things; we cannot love because we wish it. Do not send for him; let me be your servant always. I will work for you, I will serve you. Oh, I have known no love in all my life, God help me! I have been alone always; there has been none to care; even my brother beat me. When I was a little child they let me beg for bread. Herr Count, what happiness if you should speak a word of love to me—if you should hear me now! I cannot go back to Zlarin—I cannot! The holy angels are my witnesses, Herr Count.’
“She had sunk slowly to the floor, and she lay now with her head pillowed upon her arm and her right hand holding still the right hand of the master. So deeply did she feel the words she spoke that her whole body shook with her sobs and the floor was wet with her tears. She had tasted so sweet a draught of happiness that the thought of putting down the cup was bitter to her beyond words. And in her exceeding grief, excellency, she brought the Count to a memory of a day in his own life when he too had asked for the bread of love and had hungered. Such tears as she then shed openly he had shed in his heart, and they had frozen there, shutting out for twenty years all the warmth of human affections.