asked the count, still smiling; but a gleam that belied the smile shot
from his eye.

"What! when you bade me receive and co-operate with the miserable spies--
the false Italians--whom you sent over, and seek to entangle this poor
exile, when found, in some rash correspondence to be revealed to the
court; when you sought to seduce the daughter of the Count of Peschiera,
the descendant of those who had ruled in Italy, into the informer, the
corrupter, and the traitress,--no, Giulio, then I recoiled; and then,
fearful of your own sway over me, I retreated into France. I have
answered you frankly."

The count removed his hands from the shoulder on which they had reclined
so cordially.

"And this," said he, "is your wisdom, and this your gratitude! You,
whose fortunes are bound up in mine; you, who subsist on my bounty; you,
who--"

"Hold," cried the marchesa, rising, and with a burst of emotion, as if
stung to the utmost, and breaking into revolt from the tyranny of years,
--"hold! Gratitude! bounty! Brother, brother! what, indeed, do I owe
to you? The shame and the misery of a life. While yet a child, you
condemned me to marry against my will, against my heart, against my
prayers,--and laughed at my tears when I knelt to you for mercy. I was
pure then, Giulio,--pure and innocent as the flowers in my virgin crown.
And now--now--"

Beatrice stopped abruptly, and clasped her hands before her face.