“Thank God!” ejaculated the count, emphatically, clasping his hands together, and raising his eyes—­“thank God!  Forgive me for asking.”  His whole voice and manner had changed as rapidly as his aspect.  There was a sense of suffering, a quiet resignation about him, so utterly unlike his usual excitable manner that Trenta was puzzled beyond expression—­so puzzled, indeed, that he was speechless.  Besides, a veteran in etiquette, he felt that it was to himself an explanation was due.  Marescotti had been about to send for him.  Now he was there, Marescotti had heard his proposal, it was for Marescotti to answer.

That the count felt this also was apparent.  There was something solemn in his manner as he turned away from the window and slowly advanced toward the cavaliere.  Trenta was still standing immovable on the same spot where he had muttered in the first moment of amazement, “He is mad!”

“My dear old friend,” said the count, speaking with evident effort in a dull, sad voice, “there is some mistake.  It was not to speak about any lady that I was about to send for you.”

“Not about a lady!” cried Trenta, aghast.  “Mercy of God!—­”

“Let that pass,” interrupted the count, waving his hand.  “You have asked me for an explanation—­an explanation you shall have.”  He sighed deeply, then proceeded—­the cavaliere following every word he uttered with open mouth and wildly-staring eyes:  “Of the lady I can say no more than that, on my honor as a gentleman, to me she approaches nearer the divine than any woman I have ever seen—­nay, than any woman I have ever dreamed of.”

A flash of fire lit up the depths of the count’s dark eyes, and there was a tone of melting tenderness in his rich voice as he spoke of Enrica.  Then he relapsed into his former weary manner—­the manner of a man pronouncing his own death-warrant.

“Of the unspeakable honor you have done me, as has also the excellent Marchesa Guinigi—­it does not become me to speak.  Believe me, I feel it profoundly.”  And the count laid his hand upon his heart and bent his grand head.  Trenta, with formal politeness, returned the silent salute.

“But”—­and here the count’s voice faltered, and there was a dimness in his eyes, round which the black circles had deepened—­“but it is an honor I must decline.”

Trenta, still rooted to the same spot, listened to each word that fell from the count’s lips with a look of anguish.

“Sit down, cavaliere—­sit down,” continued Marescotti, seeing his distress.  He put his arm round Trenta’s burly, well-filled figure, and drew him down gently into the depths of the arm-chair.  “Listen, cavaliere—­listen to what I have to say before you altogether condemn me.  The sacrifice I am making costs me more than I can express.  You hold before my eyes what is to me more precious than life; you tempt me with what every sense within me—­heart, soul, manliness—­urges me to clutch; yet I dare not accept it.”