—“but there is no blame. Think that it was another way of asking your forgiveness.... O my God, my God, my God!”
He released his hands from her, and uttered this cry under his breath, with his face lifted towards the heavens. When he looked at her again, he said: “Madamigella, if my share of this misery gives me the right to ask of you”—
“Oh ask anything of me! I will give everything, do everything!”
He faltered, and then, “You do not love me,” he said abruptly; “is there some one else that you love?”
She did not answer.
“Is it ... he?”
She hid her face.
“I knew it,” groaned the priest, “I knew that too!” and he turned away.
“Don Ippolito, Don Ippolito—oh, poor, poor Don Ippolito!” cried the girl, springing towards him. “Is this the way you leave me? Where are you going? What will you do now?”
“Did I not say? I am going to die a priest.”