I disregarded Palamone’s bloody end.  I had executed a criminal, a procurer for hire, a vile thing unworthy to live; but what was I to do with Virginia?  There was a young woman of capacity, merit and beauty, whose honour I had taken in charge.  So far I had maintained it, and there were two ways in which I could continue so to do.  In return, she had given me devotion of the most singular kind—­for it is extreme devotion that a girl should bear obloquy and humiliation for the sake of a man who has defended her.  There was no doubt also but that I was master of her heart; no doubt at all but that she would give herself to me without thought if I lifted a finger.  The conviction of such a truth is a dangerous possession for a man, and I don’t pretend that I was insensible to it, any more than I was to her definite and personal charm.  He is divine, not human, who remains cold and unbiased with the knowledge that here, at his disposal, is a lovely and ardent female, longing to be in his arms.  Now, I had withdrawn her from her home, defied a claimant to her, and killed a man who sought her ruin, and what was I going to do?  I saw that there were two courses open; but that unless it were possible to do as the rest of her acquaintance had tried to do, there was but one.  Was I to kill Palamone in order that I might ruin her myself?  Good Heavens! my name was Strelley of Upcote.  There was one course, and I must take that.

I did not love Virginia; I admit it.  I knew that she was beautiful, and knew that she was mine for the asking, but a truce to casuistry!  In her safety was involved my own honour, to her defence must go my own life.  I admired, I respected, I was grateful, I wished her well.  I determined to marry her, and the sooner the better.  Having come to this conclusion, I knew myself well enough to believe that no power in the world could shake me from it.

When, therefore, the good girl returned to me, white and out of breath, with sausages, bread, and a flask of wine under her apron, I welcomed her as befitted one in the position in which I now designed her to stand.  I took off my hat to her and relieved her of her burden.  She noticed the courtesy; the colour flew back to her cheeks, but I observed that her breath was not thereby restored.

She became very voluble—­to hide her confusion; for by ordinary she was sparing of speech (or did she guess the lover in the master?  Who can tell?).  The wine, she told me, was easy got, and the bread.  “The sausage,” she went on—­“ah, it would have been as easy to give you one of my legs for sausages.  I went first to Il Torto’s in the Borgo; it was shut for mezzodi.  I begin tapping—­the wife opens.  ‘Chi e?’ says she; and I see a sbirro in the shop, eating polenta.  ‘Niente, niente,’ I say, and run.  That told me that the babbo was away, and that his wife had a lover in the constabulary.  Remember it, Don Francis, we may have need of her—­who knows?  Shall I confess to you that I stole your sausage?”