There was a desperate composure about the marchesa, more terrible than passion.

“Her dishonor!  God and all the saints forbid!” retorted Trenta, clasping his hands.  “Marescotti did not speak of dishonor.”

“But I speak of dishonor!” shrieked the marchesa, and the pent-up rage within her flashed out over her face like a tongue of fire.  “Dishonor!—­the vilest, basest dishonor!  What do I care “—­and she stamped her foot loudly on the brick floor—­“what do I care what Nobili has done to her?  By that one fact of loving him she has soiled this sacred roof.”  The marchesa’s eyes wandered wildly round the room.  “She has soiled the name I bear.  I will cast her forth into the street to beg—­to starve!”

And as the words fell from her lips she stretched out her long arm and bony finger as in a withering curse.

“But, ha! ha!”—­and her terrible voice echoed through the empty room—­“I forgot.  Count Nobili loves her; he will keep her—­in luxury, too—­and in a Guinigi palace!” She hissed out these last words.  “She has learned her way there already.  Let her go—­go instantly,” the marchesa’s hand was on the bell.  “Let her go, the soft-voiced viper!”

The transport of fury which possessed the marchesa had had the effect of completely recalling Trenta to himself.  For his great age, Trenta possessed extraordinary recuperative powers, both of body and mind.  Not only had he so far recovered while the marchesa had been speaking as to arrange his hair and his features, and to smoothe the creases of his official coat into something of their habitual punctilious neatness, but he had had time to reflect.  Unless he could turn the marchesa from her dreadful purpose, Enrica (still under all circumstances his beloved child) would infallibly be turned into the street by her remorseless aunt.

At the moment that the marchesa had laid her hand upon the bell, Trenta darted forward and tore it from her hand.

“For the love of the Virgin, pause before you commit so horrible an act!”

So sudden had been his movement, so unwonted his energy, that the marchesa was checked in the very climax of her passion.

“If you have no mercy on a child that you have reared at your side,” exclaimed Trenta, laying his hand on hers, “spare yourself, your name, your house, such a scandal!  Is it for this that you cherish the name of the great Paolo Guinigi, whose acts were acts of clemency and wisdom?  Is it for this you honor the memory of Castruccio Castracani, who was called the ‘father of the people?’ Bethink you, marchesa, that they lived under this very roof.  You dare not—­no, not even you—­dare not tarnish their memories!  Call Enrica here.  It is the barest justice that the accused should be heard.  Ask her what she has done?  Ask her what has passed?  How she has met Count Nobili?  Until an hour ago I could have sworn she did not even know him.”

“Ay, ay,” burst out the marchesa, “so could I. How did she come to know him?”