CHAPTER XIII

HAVING EMPTIED MY POCKET, I OFFER MY HAND, BUT RESERVE MY HEART


We sat down upon the steps of a church--San Pietro was its name, a very
old church. For a while we were silent; Virginia, it was to be seen, was
now timid--timid to the verge of defiance; I was curious, and curiously
excited.

Mastering myself, I asked her in as redoubtable a voice as I could
summon, what she did here, in Pistoja. She then looked at me with her
tragic eyes--grey eyes they were, tinged with black; and looking
steadily always, without a trace of fear, she answered, "You know very
well why I am here."

"Indeed," I exclaimed, "I know nothing of the sort. I don't in the least
understand you." Her calmness, her unflinching regard were dreadful to
me. "Do you mean me to suppose that your father--?" I could not finish
with the horrid thought. She saved me that pain.

"My father has your money," said she, "and would have kept me at home if
he could. But there he reckoned without his daughter. I left home some
three hours after you, and got here before you, as you see."

I could not be indignant with her; there was that underlying her hardy
speech which forbade precipitate judgment.