“I should not have said it, perhaps,” answered Giovanni.  “I say many things which I cannot help saying.  I am very sorry.”

“I am very sorry too,” answered the Duchessa, quietly.

“Ah! if you knew, you would forgive me.  If you could guess half the truth, you would forgive me.”

“I would rather not guess it.”

“Of course; but you have already—­you know it all.  Have I not told you?” Giovanni spoke in despairing tones.  He was utterly weak and spellbound; he could hardly find any words at all.

“Don Giovanni,” said Corona, speaking very proudly and calmly, but not unkindly, “I have known you so long, I believe you to be so honourable a man, that I am willing to suppose that you said—­what you said—­in a moment of madness.”

“Madness!  It was madness; but it is more sweet to remember than all the other doings of my life,” said Saracinesca, his tongue unloosed at last.  “If it is madness to love you, I am mad past all cure.  There is no healing for me now; I shall never find my senses again, for they are lost in you, and lost for ever.  Drive me away, crush me, trample on me if you will; you cannot kill me nor kill my madness, for I live in you and for you, and I cannot die.  That is all.  I am not eloquent as other men are, to use smooth words and twist phrases.  I love you—­”

“You have said too much already—­too much, far too much,” murmured Corona, in broken tones.  She had withdrawn her hand from his during his passionate speech, and stood back from him against the dark wall of green plants, her head drooping upon her breast, her fingers clasped fast together.  His short rude words were terribly sweet to hear, it was fearful to think that she was alone with him, that one step would bring her to his side, that with one passionate impulse she might throw her white arms about his neck, that one faltering sigh of overwhelming love might bring her queenly head down upon his shoulder.  Ah, God! how gladly she would let her tears flow and speak for her! how unutterably sweet it would be rest for one instant in his arms, to love and be loved as she longed to be!

“You are so cold,” he cried, passionately.  “You cannot understand.  All spoken words are not too much, are not enough to move you, to make you see that I do really worship and adore you; you, the whole of you—­your glorious face, your sweet small hands, your queenly ways, the light of your eyes, and the words of your lips—­all of you, body and soul, I love.  I would I might die now, for you know it, even if you will not understand—­”

He moved a step nearer to her, stretching out his hands as he spoke.  Corona trembled convulsively, and her lips turned white in the torture of temptation; she leaned far back against the green leaves, staring wildly at Giovanni, held as in a vice by the mighty passions of love and fear.  Having yielded her ears to his words, they fascinated her horribly.  He, poor man, had long lost all control of himself.  His resolutions, long pondered in the solitude of Saracinesca, had vanished like unsubstantial vapours before a strong fire, and his heart and soul were ablaze.