“My beloved—­at last,” he whispered, as her head sank upon his shoulder.

Then with a sudden movement she sprang to her height, and for one instant gazed upon him.  Her whole being was transfigured in the might of her passion:  her dark face was luminously pale, her lips almost white, and from her eyes there seemed to flash a blazing fire.  For one instant she gazed upon him, and then her arms went round his neck, and she clasped him fiercely to her breast.

“Ah, Giovanni,” she cried, passionately, “you do not know what love means!”

A moment later her arms dropped from him; she turned and buried her face in her hands, leaning against the high stone parapet of the tower.  She was not weeping, but her face was white, and her bosom heaved with quick and strong-drawn breath.

Giovanni went to her side and took her strongly in his right arm, and again her head rested upon his shoulder.

“It is too soon—­too soon,” she murmured.  “But how can I help it?  I love you so that there is no counting of time.  It seems years since we met last night, and I thought it would be years before I told you.  Oh, Giovanni, I am so happy!  Is it possible that you love me as I love you?”

It is a marvellous thing to see how soon two people who love each other learn the gentle confidence that only love can bring.  A few moments later Giovanni and Corona were slowly pacing the platform, and his arm was about her waist and her hand in his.

“Do you know,” she was saying, “I used to wonder whether you would keep your word, and never try to see me.  The days were so long at Astrardente.”

“Not half so long as at Saracinesca,” he answered.  “I was going to call my aqueduct the Bridge of Sighs; I will christen it now the Spring of Love.”

“I must go and see it to-morrow,” said she.

“Or the next day—­”

“The next day!” she exclaimed, with a happy laugh.  “Do you think I am going to stay—­”

“For ever,” interrupted Giovanni.  “We have a priest here, you know,—­he can marry us to-morrow, and then you need never go away.”

Corona’s face grew grave.

“We must not talk of that yet,” she said, gently, “even in jest.”

“No; you are right.  Forgive me,” he answered; “I forget many things—­it seems to me I have forgotten everything, except that I love you.”

“Giovanni,”—­she lingered on the name,—­“Giovanni, we must tell your father at once.”

“Are you willing I should?” he asked, eagerly.

“Of course—­he ought to know; and Sister Gabrielle too.  But no one else must be told.  There must be no talk of this in Rome until—­until next year.”

“We will stay in the country until then, shall we not?” asked Giovanni, anxiously.  “It seems to me so much better.  We can meet here, and nobody will talk.  I will go and live in the town at Astrardente, and play the engineer, and build your roads for you.”