“You meant that you might still—­” Again he stopped.  The words would not come.

He fancied that she would not speak.  She could not, any more than she could have left his side at that moment.  The air was very sultry even in the cool, closed room.  The green light on the shutters darkened suddenly.  Then a far distant peal of thunder rolled its echoes slowly over the city.  Still neither moved from the window.

“If you could—­” Orsino’s voice was low and soft, but there was something strangely overwrought in the nervous quality of it.  It was not hesitation any longer that made him stop.

“Could you love me?” he asked.  He thought he spoke aloud.  When he had spoken, he knew that he had whispered the words.

His face was colourless.  He heard a short, sharp breath, drawn like a gasp.  The small white hand fell from the window and gripped his own with sudden, violent strength.  Neither spoke.  Another peal of thunder, nearer and louder, shook the air.  Then Orsino heard the quick-drawn breath again, and the white hand went nervously to the fastening of the window.  Orsino opened the casement and thrust back the blinds.  There was a vivid flash, more thunder, and a gust of stifling wind.  Maria Consuelo leaned far out, looking up, and a few great drops of rain, began to fall.

The storm burst and the cold rain poured down furiously, wetting the two white faces at the window.  Maria Consuelo drew back a little, and Orsino leaned against the open casement, watching her.  It was as though the single pressure of their hands had crushed out the power of speech for a time.

For weeks they had talked daily together during many hours.  They could not foresee that at the great moment there would be nothing left for them to say.  The rain fell in torrents and the gusty wind rose and buffeted the face of the great palace with roaring strength, to sink very suddenly an instant later in the steadily rushing noise of the water, springing up again without warning, rising and falling, falling and rising, like a great sobbing breath.  The wind and the rain seemed to be speaking for the two who listened to it.

Orsino watched Maria Consuelo’s face, not scrutinising it, nor realising very much whether it were beautiful or not, nor trying to read the thoughts that were half expressed in it—­not thinking at all, indeed, but only loving it wholly and in every part for the sake of the woman herself, as he had never dreamed of loving any one or anything.

At last Maria Consuelo turned very slowly and looked into his eyes.  The passionate sadness faded out of the features, the faint colour rose again, the full lips relaxed, the smile that came was full of a happiness that seemed almost divine.

“I cannot help it,” she said.

“Can I?”

“Truly?”

Her hand was lying on the marble ledge.  Orsino laid his own upon it, and both trembled a little.  She understood more than any word could have told her.