She drew away from him with a gesture of despair.  The struggle with Sister Mary had disordered her hair and it fell on her white neck in loosened strands.  “My cloak—­my mask—­” she faltered vaguely, clasping her hands across her bosom; then suddenly dropped to a seat and burst into tears.  Once before—­but in how different a case!—­he had seen her thus thrilled with weeping.  Then fate had thrown him humbled at her feet, now it was she who cried him mercy in every line of her bowed head and shaken breast; and the thought of that other meeting flooded his heart with pity.

He knelt before her, seeking her hands.  “Fulvia, why do you shrink from me?” he whispered.  But she shook her head and wept on.

At last her sobs subsided and she rose to her feet.  “I must go back,” said she in a low tone, and would have passed him.

“Back?  To the convent?”

“To the convent,” she said after him; but she made no farther effort to move.

The question that tortured him sprang forth.  “You have taken the vows?”

“A month since,” she answered.

He hid his face in his hands and for a moment both were silent.  “And you have no other word for me—­none?” he faltered at last.

She fixed him with a hard bright stare.  “Yes—­one,” she cried; “keep a place for me among your gallant recollections.”

“Fulvia!” he said with sudden strength, and caught her by the arm.

“Let me pass!” she cried.

“No, by heaven!” he retorted; “not till you listen to me—­not till you tell me how it is that I come upon you here!—­Ah, child,” he broke out, “do you fancy I don’t see how little you belong in such scenes?  That I don’t know you are here through some dreadful error?  Fulvia,” he pleaded, “will you never trust me?” And at the word he burned with blushes in the darkness.

His voice, perhaps, rather than what he said, seemed to have struck a yielding fibre.  He felt her arm tremble in his hold; but after a moment she said with cruel distinctness:  “There was no error.  I came knowingly.  It was the company and not the place I was deceived in.”

Odo drew back with a start; then, as if in spite of himself, he broke into a laugh.  “By the saints,” said he, almost joyously, “I am sorry to be where I am not wanted; but since no better company offers, will you not make the best of mine and suffer me to hand you in to supper with our friends?” And with a low bow he offered her his arm.

The effect was instantaneous.  He saw her catch at the balustrade for support.

“Sancta simplicitas!” he exulted, “and did you think to play the part at such short notice?” He fell at her feet and covered her hands with kisses.  “My Fulvia!  My poor child! come with me, come away from here,” he entreated.  “I know not what mad hazard has brought us thus together, but I thank God on my knees for the encounter.  You shall tell me all or nothing, as you please—­you shall presently dismiss me at your convent-gate, and never see me again if you so will it—­but till then, I swear, you are in my charge, and no human power shall come between us!”