penetrates by the open door, the shadows form themselves into definite
shapes.

Within a deep alcove, inclosed by a balustrade, stands a bed--its
gilt cornice reaching to the ceiling, heavily curtained. This is the
nuptial-chamber of the Guinigi. Within that alcove, and in that bed,
generation after generation have seen the light. Not to be born in the
nuptial-chamber, and in that bed within the ancestral palace, is not
to be a true Guinigi.

The marchesa has taken a step or two forward into the room. There,
wrapped in the shadows, she stands still and trembles. A terrible look
has come into her face--sorrow, and longing, and remorse. The history
of her whole life rises up before her.

"Is the end, then, come?" she asks herself--"and with me?"

From pale she had turned ashy. The long shadows from the dark curtains
stretch out and engulf her. She feels their dark touch, like a visible
presence of evil, she shivers all over. The cold damp air of the chill
room comes to her like wafts of deadly poison. She cannot breathe; a
convulsive tremor passes over her.

She totters to the door, and leans for support against the side. Yet
she will not go; she forces herself to remain. To stand here, in this
room, before that bed, is her penance. To stand here like a criminal!
Ah, God! is she not childless? Why has she (and her hands are
clinched, and her breath comes thick), why has she been stricken with
barrenness?