Matteo responded with a cry of fury, and struck Leonora with his clinched fist so forcibly on the shoulder, that she fell to the ground with a cry of pain. He stood over her, cursing her, and vowing that he would have nothing more to do with the faithless woman. With a last imprecation, he then turned and rushed out of the pavilion and down into the garden. All was still in the pavilion. Leonora lay there with closed eyelids, stark and motionless, her countenance of a deathly pallor. A pale woman glided in through the open door, looked anxiously around, and saw the form of the poor girl extended on the floor. "She has fainted! I must assist her!" It was Angelica Kaufmann who uttered these words. She had been painting outside on the porch, had heard every word that was spoken in the pavilion, and now came to help and console the poor sufferer. She knelt down by her side; rested her head on her knees, drew a smelling-bottle from her dress-pocket and held it to the poor girl's nose. She opened her eyes and gazed dreamily into the kind, sympathetic countenance of the noble woman who knelt over her. "It is you, Signora Angelica," murmured Leonora. "You were near? You heard all?" "I heard all, Leonora," said the noble artiste, bending down and kissing her pale lips. "And you will betray me!" cried she, in dismay. "You will tell him?" "No, Leonora, I will not betray you to any one. I will tell no human being a word of what I have overheard." "Swear that you will not, signora. Swear that you will keep my secret, and that you will not betray it to _him_, even though my life should be at stake." "I swear that I will not, Leonora. Have confidence in me, my child! I have suffered as you suffer, and my heart still bears the scars of deep and painful wounds. I have known the anguish of hopeless love!" "I too, suffer; I suffer terribly," murmured Leonora. "I would gladly die, it would be a relief!" "Poor child, death is not so kind a friend as to hasten to our relief when we call him! We must learn to endure life, and to say with smiling lips to the dagger when we draw it from the bleeding wound: 'Paete, paete, non dolet!'" CHAPTER XI. ADIEU TO ITALY. Writhing in agony for three days and three long nights, at length Goethe found relief in the omnipresent balsam, all-healing Nature! The poet-eagle was healed! The pinions of his soul had recovered from the wounds inflicted by Cupid's envenomed arrow. Six days of solitude, six days of restless wandering, six days of communing with God and Nature, six days of struggling with his own weakness--these six days have made him six years older, taught him to conquer pain, and restored him to joyousness and confidence in himself.