“Yes!” he said as he came towards her from the door. “I cannot rest, I cannot forget. For God’s sake tell me about the end! I have been to Siena since I heard, but I dared not ask too many questions. Was she—did she suffer very much before she died? Answer me quickly.”
“Throw back your hood,” she said. “Let me see your face.”
Impatiently he thrust the folds of white and scarlet away and stood bare-headed. She saw that his strong lips quivered and that his eyes were contracted with pain.
“No, she died instantly. They said at the inquest that it must have been so.”
“Her face—was she—” his voice broke.
“I did not see it. It was covered by a handkerchief,” she said gently. “Don’t! Don’t! I did not think you would suffer so much.”
“I suffer horribly day and night. Love is the scourge of the world in the hands of the devil. That is certain. She is buried near the south wall of the Campo Santo. Oh, God! when I think of her sweet flesh decaying—”
Olive, scarcely knowing what she did, caught at his hand and held it tightly.
“Hush, oh, hush!” she said tremulously. She felt as though she were seeing him racked. “I do believe that her soul was borne into heaven, God’s heaven, on the day she died. She was forgiven.”
“Heaven!” he cried. “Where is heaven? I am not guilty of her death. She was a fool to die, and I shall not soon forgive her for leaving me so. If she came back I would punish her, torment her, make her scream with pain—if she came back—oh, Gemma!—carissima—”