Saracinesca bent his heavy brows, and was silent for a moment.  Then he looked up, and his eyes met hers, and seemed to gather strength from her.

“If you will let me see you sometimes, you may trust me.  I would I were as noble and good as you—­I am not.  I will try to be.  Ah, Corona!” he cried suddenly, “forgive me, forgive me!  I hardly knew what I said.”

“Hush!” said the Duchessa, gently; “you must not speak like that, nor call me Corona.  Perhaps I am wrong to forgive you wholly, but I believe in you.  I believe you will understand, and that you will be worthy of the trust I place in you.”

“Indeed, Duchessa, none shall say that they have trusted me in vain,” answered Giovanni very proudly—­“neither man nor woman—­and, least of all women, you.”

“That is well,” said she, with a faint shadow of a smile.  “I would rather see you proud than reckless.  See that you remain so—­that neither by word nor deed you ever remind me that I have had anything to forgive.  It is the only way in which any intercourse between us can be possible after this—­this dreadful night.”

Giovanni bowed his head.  He was still pale, but he had regained control of himself.

“I solemnly promise that I will not recall it to your memory, and I implore your forgiveness, even though you cannot forget.”

“I cannot forget,” said Corona, almost under her breath.  Giovanni’s eyes flashed for a moment.  “Shall we go back to the ball-room?  I will go home soon.”

As they turned to go, a loud crash, as of broken glass, with the fall of some heavy body, startled them, and made them stand still in the middle of the walk.  The noisy concussion was followed by a complete silence.  Corona, whose nerves had been severely tried, trembled slightly.

“It is strange,” she said; “they say it always happens.”

There was nothing to be seen.  The thick web of plants hid the cause of the noise from view, whatever it might be.  Giovanni hesitated a moment, looking about to see how he could get behind the banks of flower-pots.  Then he left Corona without a word, and striding to the end of the walk, disappeared into the depths of the conservatory.  He had noticed that there was a narrow entrance at the end nearest the fountain, intended probably to admit the gardener for the purpose of watering the plants.  Corona could hear his quick steps; she thought she heard a low groan and a voice whispering,—­but she might have been mistaken, for the place was large, and her heart was beating fast.

Giovanni had not gone far in the narrow way, which was sufficiently lighted by the soft light of the many candles concealed in various parts of the conservatory, when he came upon the figure of a man sitting, as he had apparently fallen, across the small passage.  The fragments of a heavy earthenware vase lay beyond him, with a heap of earth and roots; and the tall india-rubber plant which grew in it had fallen against