"Why, why?" she asks herself now, as she has asked herself year after
year, each year with a fresh agony. Until she came, a son had never
failed under that roof. Why was she condemned to be alone? She had
done nothing to deserve it. Had she not been a blameless wife? Why,
why was she so punished? Her haughty spirit stirs within her.

"God is unjust," she mutters, half aloud. "God is my enemy."

As the impious words fall from her lips they ring round the dark bed,
and die away among the black draperies. The echo of her own voice
fills her with dread. She rushes out. The door closes heavily after
her.

Once removed from that fatal chamber, with its death-like shadows, she
gradually collects herself. She has so long fortified herself against
all sign of outward emotion, she has so hardened herself in an inner
life of secret remorse, this is easy--at least to outward appearance.
The calm, frigid look natural to her face returns. Her eyes have again
their dark sparkle. Not a trace remains to tell what her self-imposed
penance has cost her.

Again she is the proud marchesa, the mistress of the feudal palace and
all its glorious memories.--Yes; and she casts her eyes round where
she stands, back again in the retiring-room. Yes--all is yet her own.
True, she is impoverished--worse, she is laden with debt, harassed by
creditors. The lands that are left are heavily mortgaged; the money
received from Count Nobili, as the price of the palace, already spent
in law. The hoard she has just counted--her savings--destined to dower
her niece Enrica, in whose marriage lies the sole remaining hope of
the preservation of the name (and that depending on the will of a