“Seems!” cried Corona indignantly.  “It is true!  How can any one be so mad as to doubt it?”

“I do not deny its truth,” said the prefect, speaking in the air.  “I only say that the appearances are such as to oblige me to take steps—­”

“If you lay a hand on her—­” began Giovanni.

“Do not threaten me,” interrupted the other calmly.  “My men are outside.”

Giovanni had advanced towards him with a menacing gesture.  Immediately Faustina’s sisters-in-law began to whimper and cry with fright, while her brothers made undecided movements as though wishing to part the two angry men, but afraid to come within arm’s length of either.

“Giovanni!” exclaimed Corona.  “Do not be violent—­it is of no use.  Hear me,” she added, turning towards the prefect, and at the same time making a gesture that seemed to shield Faustina.

“I am at your service, Signora Principessa, but my time is valuable.”

“Hear me—­I will not detain you long.  You are doing a very rash and dangerous thing in trying to arrest Donna Faustina, a thing you may repent of.  You are no doubt acting as you believe right, but your heart must tell you that you are wrong.  Look at her face.  She is a delicate child.  Has she the features of a murderess?  She is brave against you, because you represent a horrible idea against which her whole nature revolts, but can you believe that she has the courage to do such a deed, the bad heart to will it, or the power to carry it out?  Think of what took place.  Her father sent for her suddenly.  He insisted roughly on a marriage she detests.  What woman would not put out her whole strength to resist such tyranny?  What woman would submit quietly to be matched with a man she loathes?  She said, ‘I will not.’  She even told her father and mother, together, that she loved another man.  Her mother left the room, her mother, the only one from whom she might have expected support.  She was alone with her father, and he was angry.  Was he an enfeebled invalid, confined to his chair, broken with years, incapable of an effort?  Ask his children.  We all knew him well.  He was not very old, he was tall, erect, even strong for his years.  He was angry, beside himself with disappointment.  He rises from his chair, he seizes her by the arm, he strikes her in the face with his other hand.  You say that he struck her when he was seated.  It is impossible—­could she not have drawn back, avoiding the blow?  Would the blow itself have had such force?  No.  He was on his feet, a tall, angry man, holding her by one arm.  Is it conceivable that she, a frail child, could have had the physical strength to force him back to his seat, to hold him there while she tied that handkerchief round his neck, to resist and suppress his struggles until he was dead?  Do you think such a man would die easily?  Do you think that to send him out of the world it would be enough to put your fingers to his throat—­such