She did not even know what it was that had so suddenly darkened her heart; she only felt that a change had taken place--that she was transformed into another being. An unaccountable feeling of anxiety had come over her--a restlessness that drove her from place to place, through the long avenues of the park, in search of solitude. She only asked herself this: What had she done to cause Signore Goethe to avoid her so studiously? Why had he left the house so early in the morning, and returned so late in the evening, for the past three days? Why was it that he conversed gayly with others when he returned in the evening, but had neither word nor look for her? These questions gave her no rest; they tormented her throughout the entire day. "What wrong have I done him? Why is he angry with me? Why does he avoid me?" She sat in the pavilion repeating the questions that had made her miserable for the last three days, when suddenly Matteo, who had followed her, stepped forward and regarded her with such anger and hatred that she trembled under his glance like the dove under the claws of the falcon. "What is the matter with you, Leonora?" he asked, gruffly. "Why are you weeping?" "I do not know, Matteo," murmured Leonora. "Please be patient with me, it will soon pass away." He laughed derisively. "You do not know! Then let me tell you. You have no honor! You have no fidelity! You are a vile, faithless creature, and not worthy of my love." "How can you speak so, Matteo? What have I done?" "I will tell you what you have done," he cried, furiously. "You have listened to the honeyed words of the tempter. Be still, do not contradict me! I saw you seated together--he, breathing sweet poison into your heart; and you, eagerly inhaling it. I hate and despise him, and I hate and curse you! There! I hurl my engagement ring at your feet, and will never take it back again--no, never! We are separated! Matteo will not stoop to marry a girl who has broken faith with him." "I--with you? Matteo, that is false! That is false, I tell you." "False, is it?" he cried, furiously. "Well then, swear by the holy virgin that your heart is pure; swear by all the saints that you love me, and that you do not love him, this Signore Goethe!" She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words escaped her lips. Her lovely features assumed an expression of dismay; she stared into vacancy, and stretched out her arms as if to ward off some horrible vision that had arisen before her. "Speak!" cried he. "Swear that you do not love him!" Her arms sank helplessly to her side, and a deathly pallor spread over her countenance as she slowly, but calmly and distinctly murmured: "I cannot swear, Matteo! I know it now, I feel it now: I do love him!"