'Did you—did you confide in him?' said the girl after a moment, with a visible effort.
Eleanor made no reply. She lay with her face hidden. When Lucy bent down to her she said with a sudden sob:
'Don't you understand? I have been near two griefs since I came here—his and the Contessa's. And mine didn't stand the comparison.'
'Father Benecke had no right to take matters into his own hands,' said Lucy stubbornly.
'I think he was afraid—I should die in my sins,' said Eleanor wildly. 'He is an apostle—he took the license of one.'
Lucy frowned, but did not speak.
'Lucy! what makes you so hard—so strange?'
'I am not hard. But I don't want to see Mr. Manisty again. I want to take you safely back to England, and then to go home—home to Uncle Ben—to my own people.'
Her voice showed the profoundest and most painful emotion. Eleanor felt a movement of despair. What could he have said or done to set this tender nature so on edge? If it had not been for that vision on the loggia, she would have thought that the girl's heart was in truth untouched, and that Manisty would sue in vain. But how was it possible to think it?
She lost herself in doubts and conjectures, while Lucy still moved up and down.