t me, if you will be generous,' Giovanni answered.

'I do not know what you mean by the word,' replied the nun cautiously.
'If I am not generous, as you mean it, what then?'

Severi stopped in his walk; his face began to darken again, and his
voice was rough and hard.

'What then? Why then, remember what I am and where you are!'

Sister Giovanna drew back again.

'I would rather trust in God than trust you when you speak in that
tone,' she said.

He had used the very words she had spoken in the cloister when he had
tried to take her by the arm, but they had a very different meaning
now; his dangerous temper was rising again and he was threatening her.
Yet her answer produced an effect she was far from expecting. He
turned to the writing-table near him, opened one of the drawers and
took out an army revolver. Sister Giovanna watched him. If he was only
going to kill her she was not afraid.

'I will force you to trust me,' he said, quickly examining the charge
as he came towards her.

'By threatening me with that thing?' she asked with contempt. 'You are
mistaken!'

He was close to her, but he offered her the butt-end of the weapon.

'No,' he said, 'I am not mistaken. It is I who fear death, as long as
you are alive, and here it is, in your hand.' But she would not take
the revolver from him. 'You will not take it? Well, there it is.' He
laid it on the chair, which he placed beside her. 'If I come too near
you, or try to touch even your sleeve, you can use it. The law will
acquit you, and even praise you for defending yourself in need.'

'There must be no need,' she answered, looking at him fixedly. 'Say
quickly what you have to say.'

'Will you not sit down, then?'

'No, thank you. I would rather not.'

It would have seemed like consenting to be where she was; and besides,
the revolver lay on the nearest available chair and she would not
touch it, much less hold it in her hand, if she sat down to listen.
Giovanni leaned back against the heavy table at some distance from
her, resting his hands on the edge, on each side of him.

'After I left you to-day,' he began, 'I had a long talk with Monsignor
Saracinesca in the street. I asked him questions about obtaining a
dispensation for you. He made it look impossible, of course--that was
to be expected! But I got one point from him, which is important. He
made it quite clear to me that the request to be released from your
vows must come from you, if it is to