“Why, why?” she asks herself now, as she has asked herself year after year, each year with a fresh agony.  Until she came, a son had never failed under that roof.  Why was she condemned to be alone?  She had done nothing to deserve it.  Had she not been a blameless wife?  Why, why was she so punished?  Her haughty spirit stirs within her.

“God is unjust,” she mutters, half aloud.  “God is my enemy.”

As the impious words fall from her lips they ring round the dark bed, and die away among the black draperies.  The echo of her own voice fills her with dread.  She rushes out.  The door closes heavily after her.

Once removed from that fatal chamber, with its death-like shadows, she gradually collects herself.  She has so long fortified herself against all sign of outward emotion, she has so hardened herself in an inner life of secret remorse, this is easy—­at least to outward appearance.  The calm, frigid look natural to her face returns.  Her eyes have again their dark sparkle.  Not a trace remains to tell what her self-imposed penance has cost her.

Again she is the proud marchesa, the mistress of the feudal palace and all its glorious memories.—­Yes; and she casts her eyes round where she stands, back again in the retiring-room.  Yes—­all is yet her own.  True, she is impoverished—­worse, she is laden with debt, harassed by creditors.  The lands that are left are heavily mortgaged; the money received from Count Nobili, as the price of the palace, already spent in law.  The hoard she has just counted—­her savings—­destined to dower her niece Enrica, in whose marriage lies the sole remaining hope of the preservation of the name (and that depending on the will of a husband, who may, or may not, add the name of Guinigi to his own) is most slender.  She has been able to add nothing to it during these last years—­not a farthing.  But there is one consolation.  While she lives, all is safe from spoliation.  While she lives, no creditor lives bold enough to pass that threshold.  While she lives—­and then?

Further she forbids her thoughts to wander.  She will not admit, even to herself, that there is danger—­that even, during her own life, she may be forced to sell what is dearer to her than life—­the palace and the heirlooms!

Meanwhile the consciousness of wealth is pleasant to her.  She opens the cupboards in the wall, and handles the precious vessels of Venetian glass, the silver plates and golden flagons, the jeweled cups; she examines the ancient bronzes and ivory carvings; unlocks the caskets and the inlaid cabinets, and turns over the gold guipure lace, the rich mediaeval embroideries, the christening-robes—­these she flings quickly by—­and the silver ornaments.  She uncloses the carved coffers, and passes through her long fingers the wedding garments of brides turned to dust centuries ago—­the silver veils, bridal crowns, and quaintly-cut robes of taffetas and brocade, once white, now turned to dingy yellow.  She assures herself that all is in its place.