“Yes—­Enrica has recovered for the present,” he was saying, “but such an attack saps and weakens the very issues of life.  Count Nobili, if not brought to reason, would break her heart.”  She was obstinately silent.  The balance of her mind was partially upset. “’I shall never see Nobili again,’ was all she would say to me.  It is a pity, I think, that you sent the cavaliere away to Lucca.  Enrica might have opened her mind to him.”

As he spoke, Fra Pacifico crossed one of his legs over the other, and arranged the heavy folds of his cassock over his knees.

“And who says Enrica shall not see Nobili again?” asked the marchesa, defiantly.  “Holy saints!  That is my affair.  I want no advice.  My honor is now as much concerned in the completion of this marriage as it was before to prevent it.  The contract has been signed in my presence.  The money agreed upon has been paid over to me.  The marriage must take place.  I have sent Trenta to Lucca to make preliminary arrangements.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” answered Fra Pacifico, his countenance brightening.  “There must be some extraordinary mistake.  The cavaliere will explain it.  Some enemies of your family must have misled Count Nobili, especially as there was a certain appearance of concealment respecting Count Marescotti.  It will all come right.  I only feared lest the language of that letter would have, in your opinion, rendered the marriage impossible.”

“That letter does not move me in the least,” answered the marchesa haughtily, speaking out of the shadow.  She gave the letter a kick, sending it farther from her.  “I care neither for praise nor insult from such a fellow.  He is but an instrument in my hand.  He has, however, justified my bad opinion of him.  I am glad of that.  Do you imagine, my father,” she added, leaning forward, and bringing her head for an instant within the circle of the light—­“do you imagine any thing but absolute necessity would have induced me to allow Count Nobili ever to enter my presence?”

“I am bound to tell you that your pride is un-Christian, my daughter.”  Fra Pacifico spoke with warmth.  “I cannot permit such language in my presence.”

The marchesa waved her hand contemptuously, then contemplated him, a smile upon her face.

“I have long known Count Nobili.  He has the faults of his age.  He is impulsive—­vain, perhaps—­but at the same time he is loyal and generous.  He was not himself when he wrote that letter.  There is a passionate sorrow about it that convinces me of this.  He has been misled.  The offer you sanctioned of Enrica’s hand to Count Marescotti, has been misrepresented to him.  Undoubtedly Nobili ought to have sought an explanation before he left Lucca; but, the more he loved Enrica, the more he must have suffered before he could so address her.”

“You justify Count Nobili, then, my father, not only for abandoning my niece, but for endeavoring to blast her character?  Is this your Christianity?” The marchesa asked this question with bitter scorn; her keen eyes shone mockingly out of the darkness.  “I told you what he was, remember.  I have some knowledge of him and of his father.”