Vittoria perceived his drift, and also the dear good heart of the old man, who meant no harm to her, and believed that he was making use of his professional weapons for her ultimate good.  The inquisitions and the kindness went musically together; she responded to the kindness, but rebutted the inquisitions; at which he permitted a shade of discontent to traverse his features, and asked her with immense tenderness whether she had not much on her mind; she expressing melodious gratitude for his endeavours to give her comfort.  He could not forbear directing an admonishment to her stubborn spirit, and was obliged, for the sake of impressiveness, to speak it harshly; until he saw, that without sweetness of manner and unction of speech, he left her untouched; so he was driven back to the form of address better suited to his nature and habits; the end of which was that both were cooing.

Vittoria was ashamed to tell herself how much she liked him and his ghostly brethren, whose preaching was always of peace, while the world was full of lurid hatred, strife, and division.  She begged the baffled old man to keep her hand in his.  He talked in Latinized Italian, and only appeared to miss the exact meaning of her replies when his examination of the state of her soul was resumed.  They sat in the soft colour of the consecrated place like two who were shut away from earth.  Often he thought that her tears were about to start and bring her low; for she sighed heavily; at the mere indication of the displacement of her hand, she looked at him eagerly, as if entreating him not to let it drop.

“You are a German, father?” she said.

“I am of German birth, my daughter.”

“That makes it better.  Remain beside me.  The silence is sweet music.”

The silence was broken at intervals by his murmur of a call for patience! patience!

This strange scene concluded with the entry of the duchess, who retired partly as soon as she saw them.  Vittoria smiled to the old man, and left him:  the duchess gave her a hushed welcome, and took her place.  Vittoria was soon in Laura’s arms, where, after a storm of grief, she related the events of the journey following her flight from Milan.  Laura interrupted her but once to exclaim, “Angelo Guidascarpi!” Vittoria then heard from her briefly that Milan was quiet, Carlo Ammiani in prison.  It had been for tidings of her lover that she had hastened over the mountains to Meran.  She craved for all that could be told of him, but Laura repeated, as in a stupefaction, “Angelo Guidascarpi!” She answered Vittoria’s question by saying, “You could not have had so fatal a companion.”

“I could not have had so devoted a protector.”

“There is such a thing as an evil star.  We are all under it at present, to some degree; but he has been under it from his birth.  My Sandra, my beloved, I think I have pardoned you, if I ever pardon anyone!  I doubt it; but it is certain that I love you.  You have seen Countess Anna, or I would have told you to rest and get over your fatigue.  The Lenkensteins are here—­my poor sister among them.  You must show yourself.  I was provident enough to call at your mother’s for a box of your clothes before I ran out of wretched Milan.”