Violante made no answer; but her smile, so sweet and so lofty, humbled the questioner it rebuked.
"I may restore to Italy your father," said Beatrice, with an altered voice. "Come!"
Violante approached, but still hesitatingly.
"Not by union with your brother?"
"You dread that so much, then?"
"Dread it? No! Why should I dread what is in my power to reject. But if you can really restore my father, and by nobler means, you may save me for—"
Violante stopped abruptly; the Marchesa's eyes sparkled.
"Save you for—ah! I can guess what you leave unsaid. But come, come—more strangers—see; you shall tell me all at my own house. And if you can make one sacrifice, why, I will save you all else. Come, or farewell forever!"
Violante placed her hand in Beatrice's, with a frank confidence that brought the accusing blood into the Marchesa's cheek.
"We are women both," said Violante; "we descend from the same noble house; we have knelt alike to the same Virgin Mother; why should I not believe and trust you?"