"He did not catch hold of her again; he misread that smile, and said that he would come that night. 'What hour?' she asked, and he answered that he would come at midnight. She put her hand to her bosom and drew out the little crucifix they wear on a string. 'Swear on this that you will come to me at midnight,' she said, and he took it in his hand and swore. Then it was evening she came out here, to where the canal runs under the road. And there she drowned herself."
She paused. "Duilia, her name was," she added quietly.
"Eh?" said Jovannic.
"Duilia, the same as mine."
"But—the officer?" asked Jovannic. "Was he—did he?"
"No," she said. "He did not keep the oath which he swore upon the crucifix."
From the terrace before the house came the blare of the bugle sounding the officers' mess call. She turned to go to her door.
"But, signorina!" Jovannic moved towards her. The sense of her, of the promise and power of her beauty and womanhood, burned in him. And to the allurement of her youth and her slender grace were added a glamour of strangeness and the quality of the moment. She paused and faced him once more.
"It is good night, Signor Tenente," she said.
He watched her pass round the end of the building, unhurried, sad and unafraid. He stood for some seconds yet after she had disappeared; then, drawing a deep breath, like one relaxing from a strain, he turned and walked back to the front of the house.