Again he held her close to him, in silence, forgetting all the unheard-of difficulties of his situation in the happiness of holding her in his arms.  His silence, indeed, was more eloquent than any words could have been.  “My beloved!” he said at last, “how could you run such risks for me?  Do you think I am worthy of so much love?  And yet, if loving you can make me worthy of you, I am the most deserving man that ever lived—­and I live only for you.  But for you I might as well be buried under our feet here with my poor comrades.  But tell me, Faustina, were you not afraid to come?  How long have you been here?  It is very late—­it is almost morning.”

“Is it?  What does it matter, since you are safe?  You ask how I came?  Did I not tell you I would follow you?  Why did you run on without me?  I ran here very quickly, and just as I saw the gates of the barracks there was a terrible noise and I was thrown down, I cannot tell how.  Soon I got to my feet and crept under a doorway.  I suppose I must have fainted, for I thought you were killed.  I saw a soldier before me, just when it happened, and he must have been struck.  I took him for you.  When I came to myself there were so many people in the street that I could not move from where I was.  Then they went away, and I came here while the workmen tried to move the stones, and I watched them and begged them to go on, but they would not, and I had nothing to give them, so they went away too, and I knew that I should have to wait until to-morrow to find you—­for I would have waited—­no one should have dragged me away—­ah! my darling—­my beloved!  What does anything matter now that you are safe!”

For fully half an hour they sat talking in this wise, both knowing that the situation could not last, but neither willing to speak the word which must end it.  Gouache, indeed, was in a twofold difficulty.  Not only was he wholly at a loss for a means of introducing Faustina into her father’s house unobserved at such an hour; he was in command of the men stationed in the neighbourhood, and to leave his post under any circumstances whatever would be a very grave breach of duty.  He could neither allow Faustina to return alone, nor could he accompany her.  He could not send one of his men for a friend to help him, since to take any one into his confidence was to ruin the girl’s reputation in the eyes of all Rome.  To find a cab at that time of night was almost out of the question.  The position seemed desperate.  Faustina, too, was a mere child, and it was impossible to explain to her the social consequences of her being discovered with him.

“I think, perhaps,” said she after a happy silence, and in rather a timid voice—­“I think, perhaps, you had better take me home now.  They will be anxious, you know,” she added, as though fearing that he should suspect her of wishing to leave him.

“Yes, I must take you home,” answered Gouache, somewhat absently.  To her his tone sounded cold.