But she begged and prayed that in spite of everything he would not cease to love her. He must not; he must not! He might punish her in any way he pleased, if only he did not cease to love her.
He must not do as her father had. He had perhaps reason to close his heart to her now, but he must not. He must be merciful.
If he knew how she loved him! If he knew how she dreamed of him!
She told him that he was nothing less than life itself to her.
“Must I die, Gaetano?” she asked.
“Is it not enough that those opinions and teachings part us? Is it not enough that they have carried you to prison? Will you also cease to love me, because we do not think alike?
“Ah, Gaetano, love me! It leads to nothing; there is no hope in your love, but love me; I die if you do not love me.”
Donna Micaela had hardly sent off the letter before she began to wait for the answer. She expected a stormy and angry reply, but she hoped that there would be one single word to show her that he still loved her.
But she waited several weeks without receiving any letter from Gaetano.
It did not help her to stand and wait every morning for the letter-carrier out on the gallery, and almost break his heart because he was always obliged to say that he did not have anything for her.