“I do understand, Bianca mia; povera anima sofferente—­I do understand.  Do you imagine that I would judge you harshly—­severely?  I know too well all that you would say; I know the difficulties, the impossibilities of your position.  Do you think that I cannot make allowances for all the fatalities attending on such a combination of circumstances?  And, trust me, the difference between what has been, and what I so earnestly hope may be now, is greater,—­I feel it to be greater, not less than you can feel it to be.  Truly there is nothing in common between the all-devouring passion which consumes me, and—­such love-vows as you have spoken of.  Do I not understand the difference.  And remember, Bianca, dearest, that the protection I offer you would be the means of placing you out of the reach,—­far out of the reach of any such disgusts,—­such suffering for the future.”

Bianca let her head fall on her bosom, and covered her face with her hands, and remained silent for some moments.  Then, lifting her face slowly, and shaking her head, she sighed deeply as she looked with a wistful earnest glance into his eyes; she said,—­

“You are good,—­you are,—­very good and kind to me; perhaps it might have been better for my happiness if you had been less so.  But bear with me yet a little, Signor Marchese.  Sit down there,—­there where I can see your face,”—­pointing, as she spoke, to a spot exactly in face of the sofa,—­“and let me see if I can explain myself to you.  It is difficult; it is very difficult.  A woman, as I said, would understand it at once; but men—­are so different.  You have told me, Signor Marchese, that you love me; that you never loved before; that I am the first woman who has ever moved your heart.  Eh, bene, Signor Marchese!  If I, having heard those protestations, were to confess that—­that it was with me even as with you,”—­she dropped her eyes and sighed as she made the confession;—­“that I, too—­that you have taught me now for the first time what it is to love,—­though I might speak it less eloquently than you have done, the words would be equally true,—­equally true, Signor,” she repeated, slowly nodding her head.  “And when I have confessed that it is so,” she continued, speaking more rapidly, “can you wonder—­can you not understand that it is impossible to me—­that it would be a horror unspeakable to—­to renew with the object of a true love—­the first—­the first, as God sees my heart—­the degradation that has left nothing but bitterness and humiliation behind it?  Shall the name of Lamberto di Castelmare be written in my memory in the hateful list of those who have been to me the occasion of remorse, of self-condemnation, of bitterness immeasurable?  Never, never, never!  Come what may there shall be one pure place in my heart; one unsoiled spot in my life; one ever-dear remembrance unlinked with sorrow and with shame; one memory which, however sad, shall not be humiliating.”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she ceased speaking, and appeared to be entirely overcome by her emotion.