"You could do that? you would do that?" she asked, stopping hesitatingly. "It is impossible; you do not know him; no one can alter _him_!" "Trust!" he said. The hope that spoke so sweetly to her, came to his assistance. She forced herself gently from him, and followed him into the house. As soon as she reached his chamber, still in darkness, she seated herself on a stool close by the door, her bundle, which she had carried with her, resting on her lap. He struck a light, and spoke not again, but turned over his papers mechanically, purposeless. His forehead glowed when he thought of Bianchi's deed. The exquisite consciousness of his utter devotion, which the past hour had taught him, supported him, when the feeling that Mary was lost to him for ever would have crushed him. Whilst he was thus dreaming about the future and nerving himself to bear his fate, he heard a light breathing from the door. He looked up and saw that Caterina had wept herself into a heavy sleep. Gently he stepped to her side--her head had sunk upon her shoulder, her arms hung down, her breast heaved with sorrow-laden dreams. He raised her gently and cautiously, and bore her in his arms to a sofa which stood near the wall. As he laid her down his face approached her cheek, he felt the warm breath from her lips, the scent from her hair swept around him, the beauty of her limbs rested blooming before him; but all ill passion had gone from him--he raised himself, spread out his cloak over the sleeping girl, and went to his room. Not until the lesser stars were dwindling into darkness did he snatch a short and restless sleep; but no thought of Caterina disturbed it. CHAPTER VIII. In the bright morning he entered Bianchi's workshop. He started as the haggard, pallid face of his friend looked up to him from the work-table. His hair seemed to have grown suddenly greyer, his eyes darker; and yet a kindly expression played about the compressed lips when he recognised Theodore. "You have passed a bad night." said Theodore, "and I am the cause of it." "I lay awake." said Bianchi, calmly; "but why do you trouble yourself about the fancies that now and then drive my rest from me? Let us talk about better things--talk, read, and, above all, stay if you can. Let it be so--it gives me a strange pleasure to-day to hear your voice." "Bianchi, it is useless to hide yourself under a cloak of words when your whole heart lies open before me--I know all!" "You know all!--then keep secret what you know," said Bianchi, vehemently; "keep it secret--never speak a word to me about it. It lies behind me, far behind me! Ay!" he continued, "think of it as you will, only let all be as it was--promise me that." Theodore stood deeply pained; he remembered that he, too, in a few days would look upon all here as if it lay far, far behind him; but he could not confess that to him, for fear of being unable to perform what he had now to do.