“Though he dares to be in love with you?”

“Though I dare to love him—­or apart from that.  Say that if it were not for that, you would treat him just as before you went away.”

“Yes, I would,” answered Beroviero thoughtfully.

“The book is there,” said Marietta.

She pointed to the big earthen jar that contained the broken glass, and her father’s eyes followed her land.

“It is for Zorzi’s sake that I tell you,” she continued.  “The book is buried deep down amongst the broken bits.  It will take a long time to get it out.  Shall I call Pasquale to help us?”

“No,” answered her father.

He went to the other end of the room and brought back the crowbar.  Then he placed himself in a good position for striking, and raised the iron high in air with both his hands.

“Stand back!” he cried as Marietta came nearer.

The first blow knocked a large piece of earthenware from the side of the strong jar, and a quantity of broken red glass poured out, as red as blood from a wound, and fell with little crashes upon the stone floor.  Beroviero raised the crowbar again and again and brought it down with all his might.  At the fourth stroke the whole jar went to pieces, leaving nothing but a red heap of smashed glass, round about which lay the big fragments of the jar.  In the middle of the heap, the corner of the iron box appeared, sticking up like a black stone.

“At last!” exclaimed the old man, flushed with satisfaction.  “Giovanni had not thought of this.”

He cleared away the shivers and gently pushed the box out of its bed with the crowbar.  He soon got it out on the floor, and with some precaution, lest any stray splinter should cut his fingers, he set it upon the table.  Then he took the key from his neck and opened it.

Marietta’s belief in Zorzi had never wavered, from the first, but Beroviero was more than half sure that the book had been opened.  He took it up with care, turned it over and over in his hands, scrutinised the seal, the strings, the knots, and saw that they were all his own.

“It is impossible that this should have been undone and tied up again,” he said confidently.

“Any one could see that at once,” Marietta answered.  “Do you believe that Zorzi is innocent?”

“I cannot help believing.  But I do not understand.  There is the red glass, made by dropping the piece of copper into it.  That is in the book, I am sure.”

“It was an accident,” said Marietta.  “The copper ladle fell into the glass.  Zorzi told me about it.”

“Are you sure?  That is possible.  The very same thing happened to Paolo Godi, and that was how he discovered the colour.  But there is the white glass, which is so like mine, though it is better.  That may have been an accident too.  Or the boy may have tried an experiment upon mine by adding something to it.”

“It is at least sure that the book has not been touched, and that is the main thing.  You admit that he is quite innocent, do you not?  Quite, quite innocent?”