“You would not have refused me once, Merthyr!”

“When you were a child, and I hardly better than a boy.  Now it’s different.  Let mine go first, Georgey.  You may have a husband, who will not look on these things as we do.”

“How can I love a husband!” was all she said; and Merthyr took her in his arms.  His gaiety had gone.

“We can’t go dancing into a pit of this sort,” he sighed, partly to baffle the scrutiny he apprehended in her silence.  “The garrison at Milan is doubled, and I hear they are marching troops through Tyrol.  Some alerte has been given, and probably some traitors exist.  One wouldn’t like to be shot like a dog!  You haven’t forgotten poor Tarani?  I heard yesterday of the girl who calls herself his widow.”

“They were betrothed, and she is!” exclaimed Georgiana.

“Well, there’s a case of a man who had two loves—­a woman and his country; and both true to him!”

“And is he so singular, Merthyr?”

“No, my best! my sweetest! my heart’s rest! no!”

They exchanged tender smiles.

“Tarani’s bride—­beloved! you can listen to such matters—­she has undertaken her task.  Who imposed it?  I confess I faint at the thought of things so sad and shameful.  But I dare not sit in judgement on a people suffering as they are.  Outrage upon outrage they have endured, and that deadens—­or rather makes their heroism unscrupulous.  Tarani’s bride is one of the few fair girls of Italy.  We have a lock of her hair.  She shore it close the morning her lover was shot, and wore the thin white skull-cap you remember, until it was whispered to her that her beauty must serve.”

“I have the lock now in my desk,” said Georgiana, beginning to tremble.  “Do you wish to look at it?”

“Yes; fetch it, my darling.”

He sat eyeing the firelight till she returned, and then taking the long golden lock in his handy he squeezed it, full of bitter memories and sorrowfulness.

“Giulietta?” breathed his sister.

“I would put my life on the truth of that woman’s love.  Well!”

“Yes?”

“She abandons herself to the commandant of the citadel.”

A low outcry burst from Georgiana.  She fell at Merthyr’s knees sobbing violently.  He let her sob.  In the end she struggled to speak.

“Oh! can it be permitted?  Oh! can we not save her?  Oh, poor soul! my sister!  Is she blind to her lover in heaven?”

Georgiana’s face was dyed with shame.

“We must put these things by,” said Merthyr.  “Go to Emilia presently, and tell her—­settle with her as you think fitting, how she shall see this Wilfrid Pole.  I have promised her she shall have her wish.”

Coloured by the emotion she was burning from, these words smote Georgiana with a mournful compassion for Merthyr.

He had risen, and by that she knew that nothing could be said to alter his will.