(Could the marchesa have seen the cavaliere standing behind her, at that moment, and how those eyes of his were riveted on Enrica with a look in which hope, thankfulness, pity, and joy, crossed and combated together—­mercy on us! she would have turned and struck him!)

The shock of the words overcame Enrica.  She fixes her eyes on her aunt as if not understanding their meaning.  Then a deep blush covers her from head to foot; she trembles and presses both her hands to her bosom as if in pain.

“Spare her, spare her!” is heard in less audible sounds from Trenta to the marchesa.  The marchesa tosses her head defiantly.

“I am to be Count Nobili’s wife,” Enrica says at last, in a faltering voice.  “The Holy Mother is my witness, I have done nothing wrong.  I have met him in the cathedral, and at the door of the Moorish garden.  He has written to me, and I have answered.”

“Doubtless; and you have met him alone?” asked the marchesa, with a savage sneer.

“Never, my aunt; Teresa was always with me.”

“Teresa, curse her!  She shall leave the house as naked as she came into it.  How many other of my servants did you corrupt?”

“Not one; it was known to her and to me only.”

“And why not to me, your guardian? why not to me?” And the marchesa advances step by step toward Enrica, as the bitter consciousness of having been hoodwinked by such a child fills her with fresh rage.  “You have deceived me—­I who have fed and clothed and nourished you—­I who, but for this, would have endowed you with all I have, bequeathed to you a name greater than that of kings!  Answer me this, Enrica.  Leave off wringing your hands and turning up your eyes.  Answer me!”

“My aunt, I was afraid.”

“Afraid!” and the marchesa laughs a loud and scornful laugh; “you were not, afraid to meet this man in secret.”

“No.  Fear him! what had I to fear?  Nobili loves me.”

The word was spoken.  Now she had courage to meet the marchesa’s gaze unmoved, spite of the menace of her look and attitude.  Enrica’s conscience acquitted her of any wrong save the wrong of concealment, “Had you asked me,” she adds, more timidly, “I should have spoken.  You have asked me now, and I have told you.”

The very spirit of truth spoke in Enrica.  Not even the marchesa could doubt her.  Enrica had not disgraced the name she bore.  She believed her; but there was a sting behind sharper to her than death.  That sting remained.  Enrica had confessed her love for the man she hated!

As to the cavaliere, the difficulty he experienced at this moment in controlling his feelings amounted to positive agony.  His Enrica is safe!  San Riccardo be thanked!  She is safe—­she is pure!  Except his eyes, which glowed with the secret ecstasy he felt, he appeared outwardly as impassive as a stone.  The marchesa turned and reseated herself.  There is, spite of her violence, an indescribable majesty about her as she sits erect and firm upon her chair in judgment on her niece.  Right or wrong, the marchesa is a woman born to command.