"It is nothing," said Giovanni, with a forced laugh, as he offered her his arm and led her quickly away. "Imagine. A great vase with one of Frangipani's favourite plants in it had been badly propped, and had fallen right through the glass, outward." "It is strange," said Corona. "I was almost sure I heard a groan." "It was the wind. The glass was broken, and it is a stormy night." "That was just the way that window fell in five years ago," said Corona. "Something always happens here. I think I will go home--let us find my husband." No one would have guessed, from Corona's face, that anything extraordinary had occurred in the half-hour she had spent in the conservatory. She walked calmly by Giovanni's side, not a trace of excitement on her pale proud face, not a sign of uneasiness in the quiet glance of her splendid eyes. She had conquered, and she knew it, never to be tempted again; she had conquered herself and she had overcome the man beside her. Giovanni glanced at her in wondering admiration. "You are the bravest woman in the world, as I am the most contemptible of men," he said suddenly, as they entered the picture-gallery. "I am not brave," she answered calmly, "neither are you contemptible, my friend. We have both been very near to our destruction, but it has pleased God to save us." "By you," said Saracinesca, very solemnly. He knew that within six hours he might be lying dead upon some plot of wet grass without the city, and he grew very grave, after the manner of brave men when death is abroad. "You have saved my soul to-night," he said earnestly. "Will you give me your blessing and whole forgiveness? Do not laugh at me, nor think me foolish. The blessing of such women as you should make men braver and better." The gallery was again deserted. The cotillon had begun, and those who were not dancing were at supper. Corona stood still for one moment by the very chair where they had sat so long. "I forgive you wholly. I pray that all blessings may be upon you always, in life and in death, for ever." Giovanni bowed his head reverently. It seemed as though the woman he so loved was speaking a benediction upon his death, a last _in pace_ which should follow him for all eternity. "In life and in death, I will honour you truly and serve you faithfully for ever," he answered. As he raised his head, Corona saw that there were tears in his eyes, and she felt that there were tears in her own. "Come," she said, and they passed on in silence. She found her husband at last in the supper-room. He was leisurely discussing the wing of a chicken and a small glass of claret-and-water, with a gouty ambassador whose wife had insisted upon dancing the cotillon, and who was revenging himself upon a Strasbourg _pâté_ and a bottle of dry champagne.