The Marchese rose from his chair in a state of hardly less agitation.  He walked across the room;—­returned to the sofa, and seemed for a moment as if he were going to take her hand; then turned away, and stood on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire.  He was much moved, puzzled, pained, disappointed,—­goaded and lashed more violently than ever by the furies of passion; more than ever wishing that he had never seen the beautiful creature lying there before him, and more than ever writhing in mind under the consciousness that to give her up was beyond his power.

At length he again stepped up to the side of the sofa and took her hand.

She started; and plucked it from him.

“Go, Signor Marchese—­go, and leave me.  It would perhaps be better so for both of us.  I am not used to show to anybody the very inmost secrets of my heart, as I have been doing to you,—­I know not why.  Forget what I have said.  Go, and forget me;—­forget the poor comedian to whom your goodness, your nobleness, and—­your love—­ seemed for a passing minute to open a blessed glimpse of a heaven upon earth; but never—­never again propose to me to associate the name of Lamberto di Castelmare with names that I would—­oh, so fain--forget!”

Still the Marchese had not realized the nature of the position or seen the only outlet from the cul-de-sac into which he had been driven.  It involved too monstrous an impossibility to seem to him to be an outlet at all.  What was the real meaning of all this?  Then suddenly an in-rushing suspicion flashed across his mind like a blasting lightning brand, bringing with it a sharp pang, as of a dagger stab in the heart.  What was the meaning of all these protestations of admiration and affection, coupled with a denial of all that his passion drove him there in search of?  Did it perchance mean that this woman, so terrible in the power of her beauty, so dangerously irresistible, would fain have the protection which his position could give her, the supplies which might be drawn from his purse, while her love—­such love as he wanted from her—­would be given to a younger rival?

Suddenly he asked her, “When was the Marchese Ludovico here last?”

“The Marchese Ludovico?” said Bianca, carelessly; “oh, he is often here.  When last?  Let me see:  he was here this morning.  As good and noble a gentleman as any in Italy he is, too.  He is worthy to bear your name, Marchese, though it is only a poor girl like me that says it.”

“He seems to have won your good will, anyhow,” said the Marchese, frowning heavily.  “What answer, I wonder, would he get if he were to speak to you as I spoke just now?”