"Ah," she said, drooping her lashes, "I shall not clog your years! The springtime of life has passed,—for each of us!"
"But not my love for you!" he cried fiercely, with the tone of a man tortured by suspense.
Ilaria looked at him, and she saw the love upon his face, like a sunset streaming through a cloud. She pitied him for a moment, but hardened her heart the more.
"I am weary of the world," she said.
"Weary, Ilaria? Are you not free?"
She looked at him quizzically.
"The wife of Raniero Frangipani?"
"Have you not broken the chains?"
"Mine the forging—mine the suffering," she said, almost with a moan. "Though I have left him, I am not free. Nor are you! Though you burn your garb—you are forever a monk—the slave of Rome! Who is free in life?" she added, after a brief pause. "I am fearful of the ruffian passions of the world,—the lusts and the terrors,—even love itself! Life seethes with turbulence and the great throes of wrath. I would be at peace,—I have suffered—God, how I have suffered!"
Francesco rose up suddenly, and began to stride to and fro before her. He loved Ilaria, he knew it at this moment, with all the strongest fibres of his heart. He had hoped too much, trusted too much to the power of his own faith. He turned and faced her, there, outwardly calm, miserable within.