was torture such as he had never dreamt of in his whole life.  By a strange revulsion of feeling it appeared to him that by taking her so suddenly at her word he had again done her an injustice.  The process of reasoning by which he arrived at this conclusion was not clear to himself, and probably could not be made intelligible to any one else.  He had assuredly sacrificed himself unhesitatingly, and at first the action had given him pleasure.  But this was destroyed by the thought of the possible consequences.  He asked whether he had the right to satisfy her imperative demand for Faustina’s freedom by doing that which might possibly cause her annoyance, even though it should bring no serious injury to any one.  The time passed very slowly, and towards evening he began to feel as he had felt before he had taken the fatal step which had placed him beyond Corona’s reach, restless, miserable, desperate.  At last it was night, and he was sitting before his solitary meal, eating hardly anything, staring half unconsciously at the closed window opposite.

The door opened softly, but he did not look round, supposing the person entering to be the attendant.  Suddenly, there was the rustle of a woman’s dress in the room, and at the same moment the door was shut.  He sprang to his feet, stood still a moment, and then uttered a cry of surprise.  Corona stood beside him, very pale, looking into his eyes.  She had worn a thick veil, and on coming in had thrown it back upon her head—­the veils of those days were long and heavy, and fell about the head and neck like a drapery.

“Corona!” Giovanni cried, stretching out his hands towards her.  Something in her face prevented him from throwing his arms round her, something not like her usual coldness and reproachful look that kept him back.

“Giovanni—­was it kind to leave me so?” she asked, without moving from her place.

The question corresponded so closely with his own feelings that he had anticipated it, though he had no answer ready.  She knew all, and was hurt by what he had done.  What could he say?  The reasons that had sent him so boldly into danger no longer seemed even sufficient for an excuse.  The happiness he had anticipated in seeing her had vanished almost before it had made itself felt.  His first emotion was bitter anger against the cardinal.  No one else could have told her, for no one else knew what he had done nor where he was.  Giovanni thought, and with reason, that the great man might have spared his wife such a blow.

“I believed I was doing what was best when I did it,” he answered, scarcely knowing what to say.

“Was it best to leave me without a word, except a message of excuse for others?”

“For you—­was it not better?  For me—­what does it matter?  Should I be happier anywhere else?”

“Have I driven you from your home, Giovanni?” asked Corona, with a strange look in her dark eyes.  Her voice trembled.