“With limitations.  Besides, I had the misfortune to deprive her of the chosen companion of her life, and at a critical moment.  She has not forgotten that.”

“No she has not,” answered Orsino gloomily.  The memory of Aranjuez was a sore point.  “Why did you kill him?” he asked, suddenly.

“Because he was an adventurer, a liar and a thief—­three excellent reasons for killing any man, if one can.  Moreover he struck her once—­with that silver paper cutter which she insists on using—­and I saw it from a distance.  Then I killed him.  Unluckily I was very angry and made a little mistake, so that he lived twelve hours, and she had time to get a priest and marry him.  She always pretends that he struck her in play, by accident, as he was showing her something about fencing.  I was in the next room and the door was open—­it did not look like play.  And she still thinks that he was the paragon of all virtues.  He was a handsome devil—­something like you, but shorter, with a bad eye.  I am glad I killed him.”

Spicca had looked steadily at Orsino while speaking.  When he ceased, he began to walk about the small room with something of his old energy.  Orsino roused himself.  He had almost begun to forget his own position in the interest of listening to the count’s short story.

“So much for Aranjuez,” said Spicca.  “Let us hear no more of him.  As for this mad plan of yours, you are convinced, I suppose, and you will give it up.  Go home and decide in the morning.  For my part, I tell you it is useless.  She will not marry you.  Therefore leave her alone and do nothing which can injure her.”

“I am not convinced,” answered Orsino doggedly.

“Then you are not your father’s son.  No Saracinesca that I ever knew would do what you mean to do—­would wantonly tarnish the good name of a woman—­of a woman who loves him too—­and whose only fault is that she cannot marry him.”

“That she will not.”

“That she cannot.”

“Do you give me your word that she cannot?”

“She is legally free to marry whom she pleases, with or without my consent.”

“That is all I want to know.  The rest is nothing to me—­”

“The rest is a great deal.  I beg you to consider all I have said, and I am sure that you will, quite sure.  There are very good reasons for not telling you or any one else all the details I know in this story—­so good that I would rather go to the length of a quarrel with you than give them all.  I am an old man, Orsino, and what is left of life does not mean much to me.  I will sacrifice it to prevent your opening this door unless you tell me that you give up the idea of leaving Rome to-night.”