“Yes, dear,” he said, though the words choked him like hot dust, “I know it was all a mistake.  How can I ever ask your forgiveness?”

Corona saw that it was not the truth, and with a despairing cry she turned away and hid her face in the pillow.  Giovanni felt an icy chill of horror descending to his heart.  A more terrible moment could scarcely be imagined.  There he stood beside his dying wife, the conviction of her sin burnt in upon his heart, but loving her fiercely still, willing in that supreme crisis to make her think she was forgiven, striving to tell the kind lie that nevertheless would not be told, powerless to deceive her who had so horribly betrayed him.

Once more he bent over her and laid his hand on hers.  The touch of her wasted fingers brought the tears to his eyes again, but the moment of passion was past.  He bent down and would have comforted her had he known how, but not a word would form itself upon his lips.  Her face was turned away and he could see that she was determined not to look at him.  Only now and then a passionate sob shook her and made her tremble, like a thing of little weight shaken by the wind.

Giovanni could bear it no longer.  Once more he kissed her heavy hair and then quickly went out, he knew not whither.  When he realised what he was doing he found himself leaning against a damp wall in the street.  He pulled himself together and walked away at a brisk pace, trying to find some relief in rapid motion.  He never knew how far he walked that night, haunted by the presence of Corona’s deathly face and by the sound of that despairing cry which he had no power to check.  He went on and on, challenged from time to time by the sentinels to whom he mechanically showed his pass.  Striding up hill and down through the highways and through the least frequented streets of the city, it was all the same to him in his misery, and he had no consciousness of what he saw or heard.  At eight o’clock in the evening he was opposite Saint Peter’s; at midnight he was standing alone at the desolate cross-roads before Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, beyond the Lateran, and only just within the walls.  From place to place he wandered, feeling no fatigue, but only a burning fever in his head and an icy chill in his heart.  Sometimes he would walk up and down some broad square twenty or thirty times; then again he followed a long thoroughfare throughout its whole length, and retraced his steps without seeing that he passed twice through the same street.

At last he found himself in a great crowd of people.  Had he realised that it was nearly three o’clock in the morning the presence of such a concourse would have astonished him.  But if he was not actually ill and out of his mind, he was at all events in such a confused state that he did not even ask himself what was the meaning of the demonstration.