His strong despair swept over her like a wind. She sat mute and motionless upon her horse, gazing at him helplessly as one half dazed. On the cliffs above, San Nicandro beckoned with the great cross above its topmost pinnacle.
Ilaria shivered, struggled with herself, perverse as of yore.
"What am I, that you should desire me?" she said. "I have but little beauty, and am growing old. Leave me, Francesco, and forget me! Forget and forgive! I have no heart to struggle with the world!"
Francesco was white to the lips, as he stiffened his manhood to meet the wrench.
"God knows how I have loved you,—how I love you still!"
"Francesco," she said, leaning towards him from the saddle.
He gave a hoarse cry and covered his face with his hands.
"For pity's sake," he said, "say no more to me! It is enough!"—
They had reached the gate.
He pricked his horse with his spurs, wheeled from her and dashed down the road without a look. His face was as the face of a man who rode to meet his death.