There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air in
search of the food promised by the flower odors of the fatal
garden. They circled round Giovanni's head, and were evidently
attracted towards him by the same influence which had drawn them
for an instant within the sphere of several of the shrubs. He
sent forth a breath among them, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice
as at least a score of the insects fell dead upon the ground.

"I see it! I see it!" shrieked Beatrice. "It is my father's fatal
science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never! never! I dreamed
only to love thee and be with thee a little time, and so to let
thee pass away, leaving but thine image in mine heart; for,
Giovanni, believe it, though my body be nourished with poison, my
spirit is God's creature, and craves love as its daily food. But
my father,--he has united us in this fearful sympathy. Yes; spurn
me, tread upon me, kill me! Oh, what is death after such words as
thine? But it was not I. Not for a world of bliss would I have
done it."

Giovanni's passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his
lips. There now came across him a sense, mournful, and not
without tenderness, of the intimate and peculiar relationship
between Beatrice and himself. They stood, as it were, in an utter
solitude, which would be made none the less solitary by the
densest throng of human life. Ought not, then, the desert of
humanity around them to press this insulated pair closer
together? If they should be cruel to one another, who was there
to be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, might there not
still be a hope of his returning within the limits of ordinary