ack to Pisa; tell
what you have heard, restore the man you love to himself, and ruin me.
That is your work; do it! I was never your enemy, even when I distrusted
you. I am not your enemy now. It is no fault of yours that a fatality
has been accomplished through you--no fault of yours that I am rejected
as the instrument of securing a righteous restitution to the Church.
Rise, child, and go your way, while I go mine, and prepare for what is
to come. If we never meet again, remember that I parted from you without
one hard saying or one harsh look--parted from you so, knowing that
the first words you speak in Pisa will be death to my character, and
destruction to the great purpose of my life."

Speaking these words, always with the same calmness which had marked
his manner from the first, he looked fixedly at her for a little while,
sighed again, and turned away. Just before he disappeared among the
trees, he said "Farewell," but so softly that she could barely hear it.
Some strange confusion clouded her mind as she lost sight of him.
Had she injured him, or had he injured her? His words bewildered
and oppressed her simple heart. Vague doubts and fears, and a sudden
antipathy to remaining any longer near the summer-house, overcame her.
She started to her feet, and, keeping the dog still at her side, hurried
from the garden to the highroad. There, the wide glow of sunshine, the
sight of the city lying before her, changed the current of her thoughts,
and directed them all to Fabio and to the future.

A burning impatience to be back in Pisa now possessed her. She hastened
toward the city at her utmost speed. The doctor was reported to be in
the palace when she passed the servants lounging in the courtyard. He
saw the moment, she came into his presence, that something had happened,
and led her away from the sick-room into Fabio's empty study. There she
told him all.

"You have saved him," said the doctor, joyfully. "I will answer for his
recovery. Only let that woman come here for the reward; and leave me to
deal with her as she deserves. In the meantime, my dear, don't go away
from the palace on any account until I give you permission. I am going
to send a message immediately to Signor Andrea D'Arbino to come and hear
the extraordinary disclosure that you have made to me. Go back to read
to the count, as usual, until I want you again; but, remember, you
must not drop a word to him yet of what you have said to me. He must be