“I am not Flavia!” she cried, coming forward and facing her father and mother.  “I daresay you do wish I were.  Flavia has done so very well.  Yes, she is Princess Saracinesca this evening, I suppose.  Indeed she has done well, for she has married the man she loves, as much as she is capable of loving anything.  And that is all the more reason why I should do the same.  Besides, am I as old as Flavia that you should be in such a hurry to marry me?  Do you think I will yield?  Do you think that while I love one man, I will be so base as to marry another?”

“I have explained to you that love—­”

“Your explanations will drive me mad!  You may explain anything in that way—­and prove that Love itself does not exist.  Do you think your saying so makes it true?  There is more truth in a little of my love than in all your whole life!”

“Faustina!”

“What?  May I not answer you?  Must I believe you infallible when you use arguments that would not satisfy a child?  Is my whole nature a shadow because yours cannot understand my reality?”

“If you are going to make this a question of metaphysics—­”

“I am not, I do not know what metaphysic means.  But I will repeat before my mother what I said to you alone.  I will not marry Frangipani, and you cannot force me to marry him.  If I marry any one I will have the man I love.”

“But, my dearest Faustina,” cried the princess in genuine distress, “this is a mere idea—­a sort of madness that has seized upon you.  Consider your position, consider what you owe to us, consider—­”

“Consider, consider, consider!  Do you suppose that any amount of consideration would change me?”

“Do you think your childish anger will change us?” inquired Montevarchi, blandly.  He did not care to lose his temper, for he was quite indifferent to Faustina’s real inclinations, if she would only consent to marry Frangipani.

“Childish!” cried Faustina, her eyes blazing with anger.  “Was I childish when I followed him out into the midst of the revolution last October, when I was nearly killed at the Serristori, when I thought he was dead and knelt there among the ruins until he found me and brought me home?  Was that a child’s love?”

The princess turned pale and grasped her husband’s arm, staring at Faustina in horror.  The old man trembled and for a few moments could not find strength to speak.  Nothing that Faustina could have invented could have produced such a sudden and tremendous effect as this revelation of what had happened on the night of the insurrection, coming from the girl’s own lips with the unmistakable accent of truth.  The mother’s instinct was the first to assert itself.  With a quick movement she threw her arms round the young girl, as though to protect her from harm.

“It is not true, it is not true,” she cried in an agonised tone.  “Faustina, my child—­it is not true!”

“It is quite true, mamma,” answered Faustina, who enjoyed an odd satisfaction in seeing the effect of her words, which can only be explained by her perfect innocence.  “Why are you so much astonished?  I loved him—­I thought he was going out to be killed—­ I would not let him go alone—­”