“What is that?” said a voice I knew, with its silvery echo of the South, the accursed Neapolitan’s.

“It is the owl that builds in the recess, and stirs the ivy,” she replied.

“Haste!” said a third,—­“the day breaks.”

She was sitting at a low table, writing; Pia, the old nurse, stood behind her chair; the oil was richly scented that she burned; the single light illumined only her, and covered with her shadow the low ceiling,—­a shadow that seemed to hang above her like a pall ready to fall from ghostly fingers and smother her in its folds; the others lounged about the room and waited on her pen, in gloom they, their faces gleaming from that dusk demoniacly.  It was a concealed room, entered by secret ways, unknown to others than these.

When she had written, she sealed.

“There is no more to await.  Adieu,” she said.

“It is some transfer of property, some legal paper, some sale, some gift,” I said to myself, as I watched them take it and depart.  Then she was alone again.  I saw her start up, pace the narrow spot,—­saw her stand and pull down the masses, so interspersed with golden light, that crowned her head, and look at them wonderingly as they overlay her fingers,—­then saw those fingers clasped across the eyes, and the lips part with a sigh that, prolonged and deepened, grew to be a groan,—­while all the time that shadow on the ceiling hovered and fluttered and grew still, till it seemed the cluster of Eumenides waiting to pounce on its prey.  In another pause I had taken the perilous step, had hung by the crumbling rock, the rending vine, had entered and was beside her.  A cold horror iced her face; she warned me away with her trembling hands.

“What have you seen?” she said.

“You, O my love, in grief.”

“And no more?”

“I have seen you give a letter to the Neapolitan, who departs to-morrow with the little Viennois,—­perhaps to your friends at home.”

“And that is all?”

“That is all.”

“I have no friends at home.  To whom, then, could the letter be?”

“How should I divine?”

“It was for the Austrian Government!  Now love me, if you dare!”

“And do you suppose I did not know it?”

“Then is your love for me but a shield and mask?”

As I gazed in reply, my steady eyes, the soul that kindled my smile, my open arms, all must have asseverated for me the truth of my devotion.

“Still?” she said.  “Still?  And you can keep your faith to me and to Italy?”

What was this doubt of me, this stain she would have cast upon my honor?  That armor’s polish was too intense to sustain it; it rolled off like a cloud from heaven.  Italy’s fortunes were my fortunes; it was impossible for me to betray them; this woman I would win to wed them.  How long, how long my blood had felt this thing in her! how long my brain had rebelled!  In a proud innocence, I stood with folded arms, and could afford to smile.