“Indeed?  You leave Rome to-morrow?” said Whittington.  “I would I were as fortunate,” and he jerked his thumb dolefully towards the Caprara Palace.  Gaydon hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not he should ask Whittington to be silent upon their meeting.  But he determined the man was too incautious in his speech.  If he begged him not to mention Gaydon’s presence in Rome, he would remember it the more surely, and if nothing was said he might forget it.  Gaydon wished him good-night and went back to his lodging, walking rather moodily.  Whittington looked after him and chuckled.

Meanwhile, in a room of the house two people sat,—­one the slight, graceful man who had accompanied Whittington and whom Gaydon had correctly guessed to be his King, the other, Maria Vittoria de Caprara.  The Chevalier de St. George was speaking awkwardly with a voice which broke.  Maria listened with a face set and drawn.  She was a girl both in features and complexion of a remarkable purity.  Of colour, but for her red lips, she had none.  Her hair was black, her face of a clear pallor which her hair made yet more pale.  Her eyes matched her hair, and were so bright and quick a starry spark seemed to glow in the depths of them.  She was a poet’s simile for night.

The Chevalier ended and sat with his eyes turned away.  Maria Vittoria did not change her attitude, nor for a while did she answer, but the tears gathered in her eyes and welled over.  They ran down her cheeks; she did not wipe them away, she did not sob, nor did her face alter from its fixity.  She did not even close her eyes.  Only the tears rained down so silently that the Prince was not aware of them.  He had even a thought as he sat with his head averted that she might have shown a trifle more of distress, and it was almost with a reproach upon his lips that he turned to her.  Never was a man more glad that he had left a word unspoken.  This silent grief of tears cut him to the heart.

“Maria!” he cried, and moved towards her.  She made no gesture to repel him, she did not move, but she spoke in a whisper.

“His Holiness the Pope had consented to our marriage.  What would I not have done for you?”

The Chevalier stooped over her and took her hand.  The hand remained inert in his.

“Maria!”

“Would that I were poor!  Would that I were powerless!  But I am rich—­so rich.  I could have done so much.  I am alone—­so much alone.  What would I not have done for you?”

“Maria!”

His voice choked upon the word, his lips touched her hair, and she shivered from head to foot.  Then her hand tightened fast upon his; she drew him down almost fiercely until he sank upon his knees by her side; she put an arm about his shoulder and held him to her breast.

“But you love me,” she said quickly.  “Tell me so!  Say, ’I love you, I love you, I love you.’  Oh that we both could die, you saying it, I hearing it,—­die to-night, like this, my arm about you, your face against my heart!  My lord, my lord!” and then she flung him from her, holding him at arm’s length.  “Say it with your eyes on mine!  I can see though the tears fall.  I shall never hear the words again after to-night.  Do not stint me of them; let them flow just as these tears flow.  They will leave no more trace than do my tears.”