ain. He
was too proud to repeat such a request, but his love was far too
obstinate to be satisfied with less than its fulfilment. But his own
hope for his recovery was more alive than hers.

Instinctively, as she opposed them all, Veronica looked round for
Taquisara. It was not often that she needed help, and she knew that he
could have helped her, had he been there. But she had to speak for
herself. She said what she could; but in that self-examination which
self-defence forces upon those who have never dissected their own
hearts, a new and fearful truth sprang up, clear of all others, bright,
keen, and terrible.

It was no longer for her people's sake that she was waiting in the hope
of Gianluca's recovery. It was no longer for her own, nor for his. It
was out of her deadly love for Taquisara that all her nature rose
against that final bond of the law, and the world, and society. So long
as that was not yet welded and made fast upon her, there was the
fleeting shadow of a desperate hope that she might still be free.

It rose and smote her between the eyes, and clutched at her heart; and
when she knew its face, she stopped in the midst of her speech, and
turned white, even to her lips and her throat.

"I do not know. I will think about it," she said faintly.

As her power to oppose gave way, the Duca's astonishment at his victory
swelled his weakness to violence; and he raved of duties and
obligations, of paternal authority, of the obedience of children and
children-in-law, in all the boundless, self-assured incoherence of
feebleness suddenly let loose against smitten strength.

Veronica seemed to hear nothing. She had resumed her seat beside
Gianluca, and was stroking his white hand,--less thin than it had been,
but somehow even more lifeless,--and she looked down at it very
thoughtfully, while he watched her face. He was happier than he had been
for a long time, for he knew that she was going to make a concession,
and that he had not asked for it.

There was silence, and Veronica raised her head. The old Duca's face
was red with the exertion of much speaking. He was a good man and meant
well, but in that moment Veronica hated him as she had never hated any
one, not even Matilde Macomer. And yet she knew that his intention was
all for the best, and that it was natural that he should press his point
and exult when she gave up the fight. She opened her lips to speak.

At that moment the door turned on its hinge