“‘How dare you ask me that?’ she cried. ‘How dare you speak so? Surely the Count was right when he said that you must be sent about your business!’
“I was much alarmed at this, and determined to approach her otherwise.
“‘My Lord Count said that?’ exclaimed I, ‘then God reward him for his gratitude! Three days have I suffered in the mountains that I might speak for you, and this is my recompense. Nay, say nothing, child, for nothing is to be said. Strike the hand that gave you bread; and when you come to your new estate—when you are the mistress of many servants and of many lands—forget that an old man, whom once you called father, is perishing of his poverty and his want. He will never bend his head to implore your charity. Nay, though you had the blood of queens in your veins, he would neither remember nor rebuke. Enough for him that duty has been his watchword, and love of you his crime.’
“My words brought tears to her eyes, and she came up to me, laying her head upon my shoulder as she used to do.
“‘Andrea,’ said she, ‘do not speak like that. Wherever I am, there will be a home for you. I could never forget the years when I called you father. The Count will remember too. He has promised me. It is for you to choose either a cottage in the woods here or a house in your own city of Sebenico. It was his word to me a week ago. Your kindness will not go unrewarded, old friend—that could never be. Wait only a little while and all will be well.’
“I was much mollified at this, but for the moment any thought of myself gave place to astonishment and delight at her words.
“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘Count Paul has spoken to you—then surely you have news for me! Is it not my right to know? Oh, truly, I see that you have great news, and yet not a word of it for old Andrea, who would give years of his life to learn of your happiness.’
“She was silent a moment before she answered me, but taking pity at last upon my curiosity she bent her head and whispered the word I had waited so long to hear.
“‘Andrea,’ she said, ‘God make me worthy—I am to be his wife at Easter.’
“Her confusion when she said this was very pretty to see; and directly she had given me her news she ran away to her own room. But I stood long in the cloisters, not daring to believe such fortune possible. That Count Paul should have declared himself so soon was, indeed, a thing to strike me dumb with wonder. Yet I knew that no false word had ever passed her lips, and her intelligence kept ringing in my head, so that I repeated it again and again, often stopping to clap my hands with joy, or to tell myself that now truly should the future bring me years of content. I foresaw the day when Christine should rule the people of Jajce and they should rejoice at her dominion; I made her in my mind the sweet mistress of the house of the Zaloskis, the controlling influence which should break the anger of the Count. I thought of all that she would do for the old man who had loved her; and I could have danced for my delight. ‘Oh, surely, surely,’ said I, ‘may the day be blessed and may the love of God shine upon her, for she is worthy.’ All the burden of my years seemed to have left me in that hour, excellency. ‘Go, poverty, go, suffering,’ cried I; ‘no more shall your hands be laid upon me. The morrow shall be the morrow of my ease. The new day shall be a day of joy. Oh, blessed hour, blessed God!’