When the marchesa, checked by Trenta, has ceased speaking, Enrica raises her heavy eyelids and turns her eyes, swimming in tears, upon her aunt.  Then she clasps her hands—­the small fingers knitting themselves together with a grasp of agony—­and wrings them.  Her lips move, but no sound comes from them.  Something there is so pitiful in this mute appeal—­she looks so slight and frail in the background of the fading sunlight—­there is such a depth of unspoken pathos in every line of her young face—­that the marchesa pauses; she pauses ere putting into execution her resolve of turning Enrica herself, with her own hands, from the palace.

A new sentiment has also within the last few minutes arisen within her—­a sentiment of curiosity.  The marchesa is a woman; in many respects a thorough woman.  The first flash of fury once passed, she feels an intense longing to know how all this had come about.  What had passed?  How had Enrica met Nobili?  Whether any of her household had betrayed her?  On whom her just vengeance shall fall?

Each moment that passes as the quick thoughts rattle through her brain, it seems to her more and more imperative that she should inform herself what had really happened under her roof!

At this moment Enrica speaks in a low voice.

“O my aunt!  I have done nothing!  Indeed, indeed,”—­and a great sob breaks in and cuts her speech.  “I have done nothing.”

“What!” cries the marchesa, her fury again roused by such a daring assertion.  “What do you call nothing?  Do you deny that you love Nobili?”

“No, my aunt.  I love him—­I love him.”

The mention of Nobili’s name gave Enrica courage.  With that name the sunlit days of meeting came back again.  A gleam of their divine refraction swam before her.  Nobili—­is he not strong, and brave, and true?  Is he not near at hand?  Oh, if he only knew her need!—­oh, if he could only rush to her—­bear her in his arms away—­away to untrodden lands of love and bliss where she could hide her head upon his breast and be at peace!

All this gave her courage.  She passes her hand over her face and brushes the tears away.  Her blue eyes, that shine out now like a rent in a cloudy sky, are meekly but fearlessly cast upon her aunt.

“You dare to tell me you love him—­you dare to avow it in my presence, degraded girl! have you no pride—­no decency?”

“I have done nothing,” Enrica answers in the same voice, “of which I am ashamed.  From the first moment I saw him I loved him.  I loved—­him—­oh! how I loved him!” She repeats this softly, as if speaking to herself.  An inner light shines over her whole countenance.  “And Nobili loves me.  I know it.”  Her voice sounds sweet and firm.  “He is mine!”

“Fool, you think so; you are but one of many!” The marchesa, incensed beyond endurance at her firmness, raises her head with the action of a snake about to spring upon its prey.  “Dare you deny that you are his mistress?”