“Suffer me to speak to you.  Yours is a face of one easily moved to love—­to love and to suffer,” he added, strange lights coming into his eyes as he gazed at her.

Enrica listened to him in painful silence; his words sounded prophetic.

“To love and to suffer; but, loving once”—­again the count was speaking, and his voice enchained her by its sweetness—­“to love forever.  Where shall the man be found pure enough to dare to accept such love as you can bestow?  By Heavens!” he added, and his voice fell to a whisper, and his black eyes seemed to penetrate into her very soul, “you love already.  I read it in the depths of those heavenly eyes, in the shadow that already darkens that soft brow, in the dreamy, languid air that robs you of your youth.  You love—­is it possible that you love—?”

He stopped before the question was finished—­before the name was uttered.  A spasm, as if wrung from him by sharp bodily pain, passed over his features as he asked this question, never destined to be answered.  No one but Enrica had heard it.  An indescribable terror seized her; from pale she grew deadly white; her eyelids dropped, her lips trembled.  Tears gathered in Marescotti’s eyes as he gazed at her, but he dared not complete the question.

“If you have guessed my secret, do not—­oh! do not betray me!”

She said this so faintly that the sound came to him like a whisper from the rustling bay-leaves.

“Never!” he responded in a low, earnest tone—­“never!”

She believed him implicitly.  With that look, that voice, who could doubt him?

“I have cause to suffer,” she replied with a sigh, not venturing to meet his eyes—­“to suffer and to wait.  But my aunt—­”

She said no more; her head fell on her bosom, her arms dropped to her side, she sighed deeply.

“May I be at hand to shield you!” was his answer.

After this, he, too, was silent.  Rising from his knees, he leaned against the trunk of the bay-tree and contemplated her steadfastly.  There was a strange mixture of passion and of curiosity in his mobile face.  If she would not tell him, could he not rend her secret from her?

Trenta, seated at the opposite side of the platform, observed them as they stood side by side, half concealed by the foliage—­observed them with benign satisfaction.  It was all as it should be; his mission would be easy.  It was clear they understood each other.  He believed at that very moment Enrica was receiving the confession of Marescotti’s love; the confusion of her looks was conclusive.  The cavaliere’s whole endeavor was, at that moment, to keep Baldassare quiet; he rejoiced to see that he was gently yielding to the influence of the heat, and nodding at his side.

“Count,” said Enrica, looking up and endeavoring to break a silence which had become painful, “if I have inspired you with any interest—­”

She hesitated.

“If you have inspired me?” ejaculated Marescotti, reproachfully, not moving his eyes off her.