views of the case.  He had declared that he was desperate.  The cardinal had concluded that he was unhappy.  He had said that he did not care what became of him.  The cardinal had supposed that he would be glad to be alone, or at all events that it would be good for him to have a certain amount of solitude.  If his position were in any way dangerous, the great man would surely not have thought of sending Corona to his prisoner as he had done.  He would have prepared her himself against any shock.  And yet he was undeniably in prison, with no immediate prospect of liberty.

“You cannot stay here any longer,” said Corona when they were at last able to talk of the immediate future.

“I do not see how I am to get out,” Giovanni answered, with a smile.

“I will go to the cardinal—­”

“It is of no use.  He probably guesses the truth, but he is not willing to be made ridiculous by me or by any one.  He will keep me here until there can be a trial, or until he finds the real culprit.  He is obstinate.  I know him.”

“It is impossible that he should think of such a thing!” exclaimed Corona indignantly.

“I am afraid it is very possible.  But, of course, it is only a matter of time—­a few days at the utmost.  If worst comes to worst I can demand an inquiry, I suppose, though I do not see how I can proclaim my own innocence without hurting Faustina.  She was liberated because I put myself in her place—­it is rather complicated.”

“Tell me, Giovanni,” said Corona, “what did you say to the cardinal?  You did not really say that you murdered Montevarchi?”

“No.  I said I gave myself up as the murderer, and I explained how I might have done the deed.  I did more, I pledged my honour that Faustina was innocent.”

“But you were not sure of it yourself—­”

“Since you had told me it was true, I believed it,” he answered simply.

“Thank you, dear—­”

“No.  Do not thank me for it.  I could not help myself.  I knew that you were sure—­are you sure of something else, Corona?  Are you as certain as you were of that?”

“How can you ask?  But you are right—­you have the right to doubt me.  You will not, though, will you?  Hear me, dear, while I tell you the whole story.”

She slipped from her chair and knelt before him, as though she were to make a confession.  Then she took his hands and looked up lovingly into his face.  The truth rose in her eyes.

“Forgive me, Giovanni.  Yes, you have much to forgive.  I did not know myself.  When you doubted me, I felt as though I had nothing left in life, as though you would never again believe in me.  I thought I did not love you.  I was wrong.  It was only my miserable vanity that was wounded, and that hurt me so.  I felt that my love was dead, that you yourself were dead and that another man had taken your place.  Ah, I could have helped it!  Had I known you better, dear, had I been less mistaken in myself, all would have been different.  But I was foolish—­no, I was unhappy.  Everything was dark and dreadful.  Oh, my darling, I thought I could tell what I felt—­I cannot!  Forgive me, only forgive me, and love me as you did long ago.  I will never leave you, not if you stay here for ever, only let me love you as I will!”