“‘Whither thou goest, I will go,’” repeated Nina—­yes, that was the test.  Giovanni away from his surroundings, and apart from his name—­she could not picture him.  And should she put her hand in his, whither would he lead her?  Where did his path of life end?  She could not with any certainty guess.  “Thy people shall be my people”—­how could they ever be?  They were so widely different—­so utterly different—­she had never realized it before—­and then without warning, as a final move in a puzzle snaps into place and makes the whole complete, with a little cry she started up.  For she now knew that the more she tried to focus her thoughts upon Giovanni, the more they turned to another quite different personality.  Until at last, as in a burst of light, she awoke to the consciousness that the words of Ruth were bringing a great longing for the sight of a certain pair of eyes whose expression was like those in the canvas! “‘Whither thou goest, I will go——­’ Ah!”—­exultantly and with no fear of doubt; it was true!  To the uttermost parts of the earth! . . .

But she must tell Giovanni—­she must tell him at once, decidedly and finally, “No.”

Sadly, regretfully, she crossed the room again, her hand slipped through the great Dane’s collar as though to gain encouragement from his presence.  In the antechamber of the room where Giovanni lay, she stopped and kissed St. Anthony’s head—­as though the dog in turn might help Giovanni to understand that she was not in truth as heartless as she seemed.

The stone floors were covered with thick rugs, the hangings were heavy, and her light footfall made no sound.  Without warning she parted the portieres, took one step across the threshold, and halted, stunned—­the Contessa Potensi was kneeling beside Giovanni’s couch, and the sound of Giovanni’s voice came distinctly, saying, “For her?  But no!  But because she is of the household of the Sansevero.”  And then with an ardor that made the tones which he had used to her sound flat and shallow by comparison, she heard him say, “Carissima, I swear I shall never love another as I love you.”

The portieres fell together, and Nina fled.  Two or three times she lost her way in the endless turnings of the palace before she finally reached her own room.  Once there, she wrote the shortest note imaginable, declining in terse and positive terms Giovanni’s offer of marriage.  The pen nearly dug through the paper as she signed her name.  Besides giving Celeste this missive to deliver, she sent her upon a tour of trivial shopping—­anything to be left alone.

When the door was closed, Nina threw herself across the bed, still hardly able to credit her senses.  Giovanni had asked her, Nina, to be his wife, not half an hour before—­he still had the effrontery to hope for a change in her answer.  He had dared to tell her that he loved her, he had dared to call her, too, “Carissima!”

With her head buried in the pillows, she did not hear the door open, and the princess reached the bed and took Nina in her arms before the girl knew that she had entered.