not leave her.  He saw how bravely she struggled to bear his kisses, and how revolting they were to her, and yet the magic of her beauty held his passionate nature under a spell, while the lofty dignity of her spirit enthralled his soul.  She was able to forgive, though he had so injured her, she was willing to love him, if she could, though he had wounded her so cruelly; it was torture to think that she could go no further, that he should never again hear the thrill of passion in her voice, nor see the whole strength of her soul rise in her eyes when his lips met hers.

There was something grand and tragic in her suffering, in her realisation of all that he had taken from her by his distrust.  She sank back on her couch, clasping her hands together so tightly that the veins showed clearly beneath the olive skin.  As she tried to overcome her emotion, the magnificent outline of her face was ennobled by her pain, the lids closed over her dark eyes, and the beautiful lips set themselves sternly together, as though resolved that no syllable should pass them which could hurt him, even though they could not formulate the words he would have given his soul to hear.

Giovanni knelt beside her, and gazed into her face.  He knew she had not fainted, and he was almost glad that for a moment he could not see her eyes.  Tenderly, timidly, he put out his hand and laid it on her clasped fingers, then drew it back again very quickly, as though suddenly remembering that the action might pain her.  Her heavy hair was plaited into a thick black coil that fell upon the arm of the couch.  He bent lower and pressed his lips upon the silken tress, noiselessly, fearing to disturb her, fearing lest she should even notice it.  He had lost all his pride and strength and dominating power of character and he felt himself unworthy to touch her.

But he was too strong a man to continue long in such a state.  Before Corona opened her eyes, he had risen to his feet and stood at some distance from her, resting his arm upon the chimney-piece, watching her still, but with an expression which showed that a change had taken place in him, and that his resolute will had once more asserted itself.

“Corona!” he said at last, in a voice that was almost calm.

Without changing her position she looked up at him.  She had been conscious that he had left her side, and she experienced a physical sensation of relief.

“Corona,” he repeated, when he saw that she heard him, “I do not complain.  It is all my fault and my doing.  Only, let it not be hate, dear.  I will not touch you, I will not molest you.  I will pray that you may love me again.  I will try and do such things as may make you love me as you did once.  Forgive me, if my kisses hurt you.  I did not know they would, but I have seen it.  I am not a brute.  If I were, you would put something of the human into my heart.  It shall never happen again, that I forget.  Our life must begin again.  The old Giovanni was your husband, and is dead.  It is for me to win another love from you.  Shall it be so, dear?  Is it not to be all different—­even to my very name?”