The marchesa is seated on her accustomed seat; her face is shaded by her hand.  So stern, so solemn, is her attitude that her chair seems suddenly turned into a judgment-seat.

The cavaliere has risen at Enrica’s entrance.  Not daring to display his feelings in the presence of the marchesa, he thrusts his hands into his pockets, and stands behind her, his head partly turned away, leaning against the edge of the marble mantel-piece.  There is such absolute silence in the room that the ticking of a clock is distinctly heard.  It is the deadly pause before the slaughter of the battle.  “You sent for me, my aunt?” Enrica speaks in a timid voice, not moving from the spot where she has entered, near the open window.  “What is your pleasure?”

“My pleasure!” the marchesa catches up and echoes the words with a horrible jeer. (She had been collecting her forces for attack; she had lashed herself into a transport of fury.  Her smooth, snake-like head was reared erect; her upright figure, too thin to be majestic, stiffened.  Thunder and lightning were in her eyes as she turned them on Enrica.) “You dare to ask me my pleasure!  You shall hear it, lost, miserable girl!  Leave this house—­go to your lover!  Let it be the motto of his low-born race that a Nobili dishonored a Guinigi.  Go—­I wish you were dead!” and she points with her finger toward the door.

Every word that fell from the marchesa sounded like a curse.  As she speaks, the smiles fade out of Enrica’s face as the lurid sunlight fades before the rising tempest.  She grasps a chair for support.  Her bosom heaves under the folds of her thin white dress.  Her eyes, which had fixed themselves on her aunt, fall with an agonized expression on the floor.  Thus she stands, speechless, motionless, passive; stunned, as it were, by the shock of the words.

Then a low cry of pain escapes her, a cry like the complaint of a dumb animal—­the bleat of a lamb under the butcher’s knife.

“Have I not reared you as my own child?” cries the marchesa—­too excited to remain silent in the presence of her victim.  “Have you ever left my side?  Yet under my ancestral roof you have dared to degrade yourself.  Out upon you!—­Go, go—­or with my own hand I shall drive you into the street!”

She starts up, and is rushing upon Enrica, who stands motionless before her, when Trenta steps forward, puts his hand firmly on the marchesa’s arm, and draws her back.

“You have called Enrica here,” he whispers, “to question her.  Do so—­do so.  Look, she is so overcome she cannot speak,” and he points to Enrica, who is now trembling like an aspen-leaf, her fair head bowed upon her bosom, the big tears trickling down her white cheeks.