"May not—what?" she interposed, her eyes in his. "Francesco, speak! What troubles you? What is the meaning of it all?"
"Oh, Ilaria," he said slowly, "it is indeed more difficult to tell than I had guessed. When I leave Avellino, it will be never to return!"
"But why—why, Francesco?" she questioned, alarmed by his words, but more by the wild expression of his countenance.
"How can I tell it—how can I tell it? Is it not enough for you, to know that I must go?"
"You frighten me!" she whispered, drawing nearer to him.
He took her in his arms and held her close, very close to him, pressing his lips upon her closed eyes. It was his farewell to love, to life.
"Tell me that you love me!" he begged in piteous tones.
"I love you," she breathed in whispered accents, broken by a sob. "Do you not know?"
"I love you," he cried with sudden fierceness, flinging the words in rebellion at the inexorable fate which was in store for him.
"Then,—why must we say it,—the word?" she queried anxiously. "Think you that I fear to follow you,—wherever you may go?"