“Miriam!” said Donatello.

Though but a single word, and the first that he had spoken, its tone was a warrant of the sad and tender depth from which it came.  It told Miriam things of infinite importance, and, first of all, that he still loved her.  The sense of their mutual crime had stunned, but not destroyed, the vitality of his affection; it was therefore indestructible.  That tone, too, bespoke an altered and deepened character; it told of a vivified intellect, and of spiritual instruction that had come through sorrow and remorse; so that instead of the wild boy, the thing of sportive, animal nature, the sylvan Faun, here was now the man of feeling and intelligence.

She turned towards him, while his voice still reverberated in the depths of her soul.

“You have called me!” said she.

“Because my deepest heart has need of you!” he replied.  “Forgive, Miriam, the coldness, the hardness with which I parted from you!  I was bewildered with strange horror and gloom.”

“Alas! and it was I that brought it on you,” said she.  “What repentance, what self-sacrifice, can atone for that infinite wrong?  There was something so sacred in the innocent and joyous life which you were leading!  A happy person is such an unaccustomed and holy creature in this sad world!  And, encountering so rare a being, and gifted with the power of sympathy with his sunny life, it was my doom, mine, to bring him within the limits of sinful, sorrowful mortality!  Bid me depart, Donatello!  Fling me off!  No good, through my agency, can follow upon such a mighty evil!”

“Miriam,” said he, “our lot lies together.  Is it not so?  Tell me, in Heaven’s name, if it be otherwise.”

Donatello’s conscience was evidently perplexed with doubt, whether the communion of a crime, such as they two were jointly stained with, ought not to stifle all the instinctive motions of their hearts, impelling them one towards the other.  Miriam, on the other hand, remorsefully questioned with herself whether the misery, already accruing from her influence, should not warn her to withdraw from his path.  In this momentous interview, therefore, two souls were groping for each other in the darkness of guilt and sorrow, and hardly were bold enough to grasp the cold hands that they found.

The sculptor stood watching the scene with earnest sympathy.

“It seems irreverent,” said he, at length; “intrusive, if not irreverent, for a third person to thrust himself between the two solely concerned in a crisis like the present.  Yet, possibly as a bystander, though a deeply interested one, I may discern somewhat of truth that is hidden from you both; nay, at least interpret or suggest some ideas which you might not so readily convey to each other.”

“Speak!” said Miriam.  “We confide in you.”  “Speak!” said Donatello.  “You are true and upright.”