“There was no doubt.  She jumped whenever I came round the corner, and used to stand behind trees watching me.  Also she used to come to see the dogs fed.  Now, when I knew beyond all question the state of her feelings, I borrowed Guido’s guitar, and struck one chord upon it at night under her window, and sang but one word—­Vieni!  In three minutes she came on to the balcony, and we looked at each other.  There was a moon, and we could see quite well.  We stood looking like that for five minutes without a syllable spoken, and then I went away.  I went away before she did; so the thing was clear.  After that I called my Vieni every night, and every night she came.  Sir, you saw how fine she was, with a face of dawn, and great eyes, and the mournful air of a saint in the sky.  There never was such a good love as ours in the world, since the days of Antonio and Cleopatra of blessed memory.  It lasted all one summer, but she was turned of sixteen by then, and her father, the marchese, wished her to marry.  Naturally I forbade that.”

“You!” I cried, and again Virginia nodded and said, “Gia!”

“You may say so,” said Ercole.  “What else could I do?  And naturally also she preferred the convent.  I bade her farewell in the garden.  She allowed me then to touch her hand.  I said, ‘Addio, Madonna,’ and she, ‘Addio, Ercole,’ and then I left her standing there.  That was five years ago.  Since then I have seen her once a year.  This is the fifth time.”

“And when will the sixth time be?” I asked him.

“Immediately,” he said.  “When the procession returns.”

“But, Ercole, is this tolerable?” I objected.  “Is it humane to Donna Domenica?”

Virginia turned upon me here.  “To her?” she cried fiercely.  “To her? 
Why, what else could she do?  What else should I—­should any woman do?”
Immediately she had said this, I could see that she wished she had not. 
She blushed and hung her head.

“It is not too easy,” said Ercole, “but it was best under the circumstances.  Imagine her in the arms of a man!  It is not conceivable.  On the other hand, one is not jealous of the Cross; and she knows that I should not come to see her if I had not been faithful.”

“And you have spoken—­”

“For what do you take me?  I have never spoken to her more than once in the garden, or at a less distance than ten braccia—­except when I touched her hand.  Also I used to say Vieni! and she came; but no more.”

“But when she was asked in marriage, and you forbade it?”

“Then she told me herself that she supposed I wished her to take the veil, and I nodded my head.”

I was forced to admit his strength of purpose.  “You are a great lover, “I said, “that is certain.  I am a lover also—­but not at all in your way.”

Ercole said, “I have only done what any man would do who loved a lady.”

“Don Francis would never say Vieni!” said Virginia with a snap, looking up quickly.