Italian tongue and accent clothe those delightful words. Besides,
Italian was Juana's maternal language.

"I should find," she continued, with a glance at Montefiore in which
shone the purity of the cherubim, "I should find in _him_ my dear
religion, him and God--God and him. Is he to be you?" she said. "Yes,
surely it will be you," she cried, after a pause. "Come, and see the
picture my father brought me from Italy."

She took a candle, made a sign to Montefiore, and showed him at the
foot of her bed a Saint Michael overthrowing the demon.

"Look!" she said, "has he not your eyes? When I saw you from my window
in the street, our meeting seemed to me a sign from heaven. Every day
during my morning meditation, while waiting for my mother to call me
to prayer, I have so gazed at that picture, that angel, that I have
ended by thinking him my husband--oh! heavens, I speak to you as
though you were myself. I must seem crazy to you; but if you only knew
how a poor captive wants to tell the thoughts that choke her! When
alone, I talk to my flowers, to my tapestry; they can understand me
better, I think, than my father and mother, who are so grave."

"Juana," said Montefiore, taking her hands and kissing them with the
passion that gushed in his eyes, in his gestures, in the tones of his
voice, "speak to me as your husband, as yourself. I have suffered all
that you have suffered. Between us two few words are needed to make us
comprehend our past, but there will never be enough to express our
coming happiness. Lay your hand upon my heart. Feel how it beats. Let
us promise before God, who sees and hears us, to be faithful to each
other throughout our lives. Here, take my ring--and give me yours."