All the color had faded from Francesco's lips.
"You mean—" the words died in the utterance.
"He wooes me!" she said low.
A fierce light leaped into Francesco's eyes. She laid a tranquillizing finger on his arm.
"You have no cause for wrath, that I can see! And yet I would rather have you near than far. The Frangipani is filled with violent passions. He wooes me violently. Since you left Avellino," she added with seeming reluctance, "he seems to have taken new courage, and—some unexplained umbrage at—I know not what! 'Who is this Francesco Villani?' he said to me and his eyes glowered. 'What is his ancestry? What should entitle him to your regard?' Again and again he dwelled on this point,—Francesco,—you know I love you,—and I care not,—so you love me,—but you will tell me,—that I may silence him,—Francesco,—will you not?"
A shadow as from some unseen cloud swept over his face.
"I shall tell him myself,—and in your presence."
"You will not quarrel?" she said anxiously, holding out her hands to him.
He clasped the soft white fingers fiercely in his own, then pressed them to his throbbing heart. In the distance voices were heard calling, clamoring.