the fitting time to disclose it to you--the
project of building up through you the great Guinigi name."

The marchesa pauses; she gasps, as if for breath. A quick flush steals
over her white face, and for a moment she leans back in her chair,
unable to proceed. Then she presses her hand to her forehead, on which
the perspiration had risen in beads.

"Alas! I did not know it!" Enrica is now sobbing bitterly. "Why--oh!
why, did you not trust me?"

In a strange, weary-sounding voice the marchesa continues:

"Let us not speak of it. Enrica"--she turns her gray eyes full
upon her, as she stands motionless in front of the pillared
casement--"Enrica, you must choose. Renounce Nobili, or prepare to
enter a convent. His wife you can never be."

As a shot that strikes a brightly-plumaged bird full in its
softly-feathered breast, so did these dreadful words strike Enrica.
There is a faint, low cry, she has fallen upon the floor!

The marchesa did not move, but, looking at her where she lay, she
slowly shook her head. Not so the cavaliere. He rushed forward, and
raised her tenderly in his arms. The tears streamed down his aged
cheeks.

"Take her away!" cried the marchesa; "take her away! She has broken my
heart!"

CHAPTER IX.

WHAT CAME OF IT.

When Cavaliere Trenta returned, after he had led away Enrica, and
consigned her to Teresa, he was very grave. As he crossed the room
toward the marchesa, he moved feebly, and leaned heavily on his stick.
Then he drew a chair opposite to her, sat down, heaved a deep sigh,
and raised his eyes to her face.

The marchesa had not moved. She did not move now, but sat the picture
of hard, haughty despair--a despair that would gnaw body and soul, yet
give no sigh. But the cavaliere was now too much absorbed by Enrica's
sufferings to affect even to take much heed of the marchesa.

"This is a very serious business," he began, abruptly. "You may
have to answer for that girl's life. I shall be the first to witness
against you."

Never in her life had the marchesa heard Cesare Trenta deliver himself
of such a decided censure upon her conduct. His wheedling, coaxing
manner was all gone. He was neither the courtier nor the counselor.
He neither insinuated nor suggested, but spoke bluntly out bold words,
and those upon a subject she esteemed essentially her own. Even in the
depth of her despondency it made a certain impression upon her.

She roused herself and glared at him, but t