Violante approached, but still hesitatingly. "Not by union with your
brother?"

"You dread that so much then?"

"Dread it? No. Why should I dread what is in my, power to reject. But
if you can really restore my father, and by nobler means, you may save me
for--"

Violante stopped abruptly; the marchesa's eyes sparkled.

"Save you for--ah! I can guess what you leave unsaid. But come, come!
more strangers, see; you shall tell me all at my own house. And if you
can make one sacrifice, why, I will save you all else. Come, or farewell
forever!"

Violante placed her hand in Beatrice's, with a frank confidence that
brought the accusing blood into the marchesa's cheek.

"We are women both," said Violante; "we descend from the same noble
House; we have knelt alike to the same Virgin Mother; why should I not
believe and trust you?"

"Why not?" muttered Beatrice, feebly; and she moved on, with her head
bowed on her breast, and all the pride of her step was gone.

They reached a carriage that stood by the angle of the road. Beatrice
spoke a word apart to the driver, who was an Italian, in the pay of the
count; the man nodded, and opened the carriage door. The ladies entered.
Beatrice pulled down the blinds; the man remounted his box, and drove on