She turned so as to see him better, and looked long into his eyes.  The colour slowly faded again from her face, and her expression changed, growing suddenly sad.

“I will forgive you.  I will try to forget it all, Giovanni.  You should have believed me, for I have never lied to you.  It will be long before I am strong again, and I shall have much time to think of it.”

Giovanni rose to his feet, still clasping her hand.  Something told him that she was not a woman who could either forgive or forget such an injury, and her tone was colder than he had hoped.  The expiation had begun and he was already suffering the punishment of his unbelief.  He bore the pain bravely.  What right had he to expect that she would suddenly become as she had been before?  She had been, and still was, dangerously ill, and her illness had been caused by his treatment of her.  It would be long before their relations could be again what they had once been, and it was not for him to complain.  She might have sent him away in anger; he would not have thought her too unkind.  But when he remembered her love, he trembled at the thought of living without it.  His voice was very gentle as he answered her, after a short pause.

“You shall live to forget it all, Corona.  I will make you forget it.  I will undo what I have done.”

“Can you, Giovanni?  Is there no blood upon your hands?” She knew her husband well, and could hardly believe that he had refrained from taking vengeance upon Gouache.

“There is none, thank God,” replied Giovanni.  “But for a happy accident I should have killed the man a week ago.  It was all arranged.”

“You must tell him that you have been mistaken,” said Corona simply.

“Yes, I will.”

“Thank you.  That is right.”

“It is the least I can do.”

Giovanni felt that words were of very little use, and even had he wished to say more he would not have known how to speak.  There was that between them which was too deep for all expression, and he knew that henceforth he could only hope to bring back Corona’s love by his own actions.  Besides, in her present state, he guessed that it would be wiser to leave her, than to prolong the interview.

“I will go now,” he said.  “You must rest, darling, and be quite well to-morrow.”

“Yes.  I can rest now.”

She said nothing about seeing him again.  With a humility almost pathetic in such a man, he bent down and touched her hand with his lips.  Then he would have gone away, but she held his fingers and looked long into his eyes.

“I am sorry for you, dear,” she said, and paused, not taking her eyes from his.  “Kiss me,” she added at last, with a faint smile.

A moment later, he was gone.  She gazed long at the door through which he had left the room, and her expression changed more than once, softening and hardening again as the thoughts chased each other through her tired brain.  At last she closed her eyes, and presently fell into a peaceful sleep.