She made him no answer, her mind harking back to that first meeting on which so often and so fondly she had pondered.
“I was thinking, too,” he said presently, “of that man Gian Maria in the plain yonder, and of this shameful siege.”
“You—you have no misgivings?” she faltered, for his words had disappointed her a little.
“Misgivings?”
“For being here with me. For being implicated in what they call my rebellion?”
He laughed softly, his eyes upon the silver gleam of waters below.
“My misgivings are all for the time when this siege shall be ended; when you and I shall have gone each our separate way,” he answered boldly. He turned to face her now, and his voice rang a little tense. “But for being here to guide this fine resistance and lend you the little aid I can—— No, no, I have no misgiving for that. It is the dearest frolic ever my soldiering led me into. I came to Roccaleone with a message of warning; but underneath, deep down in my heart, I bore the hope that mine should be more than a messenger's part; that mine it might be to remain by you and do such work as I am doing.”
“Without you they would have forced me by now to surrender.”
“Perhaps they would. But while I am here I do not think they will. I burn for news of Babbiano. If I could but tell what is happening there I might cheer you with the assurance that this siege can last but a few days longer. Gian Maria must get him home or submit to the loss of his throne. And if he loses that your uncle would no longer support so strenuously his suit with you. To you, Madonna, this must be a cheering thought. To me—alas! Why should I hope for it?”
He was looking away now into the night, but his voice quivered with the emotion that was in him. She was silent, and emboldened perhaps by that silence of hers, encouraged by the memory of what he had seen that morning reflected in her eyes: