"Of what do we brood here so early, sir saint?" quoth she.
I turned to meet her laughing eyes. "You...you can forgive me?" I faltered
foolishly.
She pouted tenderly. "Should I not forgive one who has acted foolishly out
of love for me?"
"It was, it was..." I cried; and there stopped, all confused, feeling
myself growing red under her lazy glance.
"I know it was," she answered. She set her elbows on the seat's tall back
until I could feel her sweet breath upon my brow. "And should I bear you a
resentment, then? My poor Agostino, have I no heart to feel? Am I but a
cold, reasoning intelligence like that thing my husband? 0 God! To have
been mated to that withered pedant! To have been sacrificed, to have been
sold into such bondage! Me miserable!"
"Giuliana!" I murmured soothingly, yet agonized myself.
"Could none have foretold me that you must come some day?"
"Hush!" I implored her. "What are you saying?"
But though I begged her to be silent, my soul was avid for more such words
from her--from her, the most perfect and beautiful of women.
"Why should I not?" said she. "Is truth ever to be stifled? Ever?"
I was mad, I know--quite mad. Her words had made me so. And when, to ask
me that insistent question, she brought her face still nearer, I flung down
the reins of my unreason and let it ride amain upon its desperate, reckless
course.
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