“Do not look at me so,” he said almost tenderly.  “Do not look at me as though you feared me, as though you hated me.  Can you not see that it is I who fear you as well as love you, who tremble at your coldness, who watch for your slightest kind look?  Ah, Corona, you have made me so happy!—­there is no angel in all heaven but would give up his Paradise to change for mine!”

He had taken her hand and pressed it wildly to his lips.  Her eyelids drooped, and her head fell back for one moment.  They stood so very near that his arm had almost stolen about her slender waist, he almost thought he was supporting her.

Suddenly, without the least warning, she drew herself up to her full height, and thrust Giovanni back to her arm’s length strongly, almost roughly.

“Never!” she said.  “I am a weak woman, but not so weak as that.  I am miserable, but not so miserable as to listen to you.  Giovanni Saracinesca, you say you love me—­God grant it is not true! but you say it.  Then, have you no honour, no courage, no strength?  Is there nothing of the man left in you?  Is there no truth in your love, no generosity in your heart?  If you so love me as you say you do, do you care so little what becomes of me as to tempt me to love you?”

She spoke very earnestly, not scornfully nor angrily, but in the certainty of strength and right, and in the strong persuasion that the headstrong man would hear and be convinced.  She was weak no longer, for one desperate moment her fate had trembled in the balance, but she had not hesitated even then; she had struggled bravely, and her brave soul had won the great battle.  She had been weak the other day at the theatre, in letting herself ask the question to which she knew the answer; she had been miserably weak that very night in so abandoning herself to the influence she loved and dreaded; but at the great moment, when heaven and earth swam before her as in a wild and unreal mirage, with the voice of the man she loved ringing in her ears, speaking such words as it was an ecstasy to hear, she had been no longer weak—­the reality of danger had brought forth the sincerity of her goodness, and her heart had found courage to do a great deed.  She had overcome, and she knew it.

Giovanni stood back from her, and hung his head.  In a moment the force of his passion was checked, and from the supreme verge of unspeakable and rapturous delight, he was cast suddenly into the depths of his own remorse.  He stood silent before her, trembling and awestruck.

“You cannot understand me,” she said, “I do not understand myself.  But this I know, that you are not what you have seemed to-night—­that there is enough manliness and nobility in you to respect a woman, and that you will hereafter prove that I am right.  I pray that I may not see you any more; but if I must see you, I will trust you thus much—­say that I may trust you,” she added, her strong smooth voice sinking in a trembling cadence, half beseeching, and yet wholly commanding.