“Ah Faustina!” he said at last, “God made you when he made the violets, on a spring morning in Paradise!”

Faustina blushed again, faintly as the sea at dawn.

“Must you go away?” she asked.

“You would not have me desert at such a moment?”

“Would it be deserting—­quite?  Would it be dishonourable?”

“It would be cowardly.  I should never dare to look you in the face again.”

“I suppose it would be wrong,” she answered with a bitter little sigh.

“I will come back very soon, dearest.  The time will be short.”

“So long—­so long!  How can you say it will be short?  If you do not come soon you will find me dead—­I cannot bear it many days more.”

“I will write to you.”

“How can you write?  Your letters would be seen.  Oh no!  It is impossible!”

“I will write to your friend—­to the Princess Sant’ Ilario.  She will give you the letters.  She is safe, is she not?”

“Oh, how happy I shall be!  It will be almost like seeing you—­no, not that!  But so much better than nothing.  But you do not go at once?”

“It may be to-day, to-morrow, at any time.  But you shall know of it.  Ah Faustina! my own one—­”

“Hush!  There is my maid.  Quick, behind the pillar.  I will meet her.  Good-bye—­good-bye—­Oh! not good-bye—­some other word—­”

“God keep you, my beloved, and make it not ’good-bye’!”

With one furtive touch of the hand, one long last look, they separated, Faustina to mingle in the crowd, Gouache to follow at a long distance until he saw her kneeling at her chair before one of the side altars of the church.  Then he stationed himself where he could see her, and watched through the half hour during which the low mass lasted.  He did not know when he should see her again, and indeed it was as likely as not that they should not meet on this side of eternity.  Many a gallant young fellow marched out in those days and was picked off by a bullet from a red-shirted volunteer.  Gouache, indeed, did not believe that his life was to be cut short so suddenly, and built castles in the air with that careless delight in the future which a man feels who is not at all afraid.  But such accidents happened often, and though he might be more lucky than another, it was just as possible that an ounce of lead should put an end to his soldiering, his painting and his courtship within another week.  The mere thought was so horrible that his bright nature refused to harbour it, and he gazed on Faustina Montevarchi as she knelt at her devotions, wondering, indeed, what strange chances fate had in store for them both, but never once doubting that she should one day be his.  He waited until she passed him in the crowd, and gave him one more look before going away.  Then, when he had seen her disappear at the turning of the street, he sprang into his cab and was driven back to the barracks where he must remain on duty all day.