“It is time for me to take my leave of you,” I said, in the stiff, courtly manner I affected.  “Moments fly fast in your enchanting company!  But I have still to walk to Castellamare, there to rejoin my carriage, and I have many things to attend to before my departure this evening.  On my return from Avellino shall I be welcome?”

“You know it,” she returned, nestling her head against my shoulder, while for mere form’s sake I was forced to hold her in a partial embrace.  “I only wish you were not going at all.  Dearest, do not stay long away—­I shall be so unhappy till you come back!”

“Absence strengthens love, they say,” I observed, with a forced smile.  “May it do so in our case.  Farewell, cara mia!  Pray for me; I suppose you do pray a great deal here?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, naively; “there is nothing else to do.”

I held her hands closely in my grasp.  The engagement ring on her finger, and the diamond signet on my own, flashed in the light like the crossing of swords.

“Pray then,” I said, “storm the gates of heaven with sweet-voiced pleadings for the repose of poor Ferrari’s soul!  Remember he loved you, though you never loved him.  For your sake he quarreled with me, his best friend—­for your sake he died!  Pray for him—­who knows,” and I spoke in thrilling tones of earnestness—­“who knows but that his too-hastily departed spirit may not be near us now—­hearing our voices, watching our looks?”

She shivered slightly, and her hands in mine grew cold.

“Yes, yes,” I continued, more calmly; “you must not forget to pray for him—­he was young and not prepared to die.”

My words had some of the desired effect upon her—­for once her ready speech failed—­she seemed as though she sought for some reply and found none.  I still held her hands.

“Promise me!” I continued; “and at the same time pray for your dead husband!  He and poor Ferrari were close friends, you know; it will be pious and kind of you to join their names in one petition addressed to Him ‘from whom no secrets are hid,’ and who reads with unerring eyes the purity of your intentions.  Will you do it?”

She smiled, a forced, faint smile.

“I certainly will,” she replied, in a low voice; “I promise you.”

I released her hands—­I was satisfied.  If she dared to pray thus I felt—­I knew that she would draw down upon her soul the redoubled wrath of Heaven; for I looked beyond the grave!  The mere death of her body would be but a slight satisfaction to me; it was the utter destruction of her wicked soul that I sought.  She should never repent, I swore; she should never have the chance of casting off her vileness as a serpent casts its skin, and, reclothing herself in innocence, presume to ask admittance into that Eternal Gloryland whither my little child had gone—­never, never!  No church should save her, no priest should absolve her—­not while I lived!