Although outwardly unmoved, never in her life had the marchesa felt such exultation.  Had Fra Pacifico seconded Enrica’s proposal to enter a convent, all would have been lost!  Still nothing was absolutely decided.  It was possible Fra Pacifico might yet frustrate her plans.  She ventured another question.

“If Count Nobili meets you at the altar, you will not then refuse to marry him?”

There was an imperceptible tremor in the marchesa’s voice.  The suspense was becoming intolerable to her.

“Refuse to marry him?  Refuse Nobili?  No, no, I can refuse Nobili nothing,” answered Enrica, dreamily.  “But he will not come!—­he is gone forever!”

“He will come,” insisted the marchesa, pushing her advantage skillfully.

“But will he love me?” asked the tender young voice.  “Will he believe that I love him?  Oh, tell me that!—­Father Pacifico, help me!  I cannot think.”  Enrica pressed her hands to her forehead.  She had suffered so much, now that the crisis had come she was stunned, she had no power to decide.  “Dare I marry him?—­Ought we to part forever?” A flush gathered on her cheek, an ineffable longing shone from her eyes.  More than life was in the balance—­not only to Enrica, but to the marchesa—­the marchesa, who, wrapped within the veil of her impenetrable reserve, breathlessly awaited, an answer.

Fra Pacifico showed unmistakable signs of agitation.  He rose from his chair, and for some minutes strode rapidly up and down the room, the floor creaking under his heavy tread.  The life of this fragile girl lay in his hands.  How could he resist that pleading look?  Enrica had done nothing wrong.  Was Enrica to suffer—­die, perhaps—­because Nobili had wrongfully accused her?  Fra Pacifico passed his large, muscular hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin, then stopped to gaze upon her.  Her lips were parted, her eyes dilated to their utmost limit.

“My child,” he said at last, laying his hand upon her head with fatherly tenderness—­“my child, if Count Nobili returns here, you will be justified in marrying him.”

Enrica sank back and closed her eyes.  A great leap of joy overwhelmed her.  She dared not question her happiness.  To behold Nobili once more—­only to behold him—­filled her with rapture.

“What is your answer, Enrica?  I must hear your answer from yourself.”

The marchesa spoke out of the darkness.  She shrank from allowing Fra Pacifico to scrutinize the exultation marked on her every feature.

“My aunt, if Nobili comes here to claim me, I will marry him,” answered Enrica, more firmly.  “But stop”—­her eye had meanwhile traveled to the letter still lying on the table—­a horrible doubt crossed her mind.  “Will Nobili know that I am not what he says there—­in that letter?”

Enrica could bring herself to say no more.  She longed to ask all that had happened about Count Marescotti, and how her name had been mixed up with his, but the words refused to come.