"Where were you last night, Antonio?" she asked after a pause. "At my club, signora." "When did you come home?" "Late." "But when?" "At one o'clock. Ma perché?" She was leaning over the small table which held her tools and feeling about amongst them. "I only wanted to know. We went to bed very late last night. We had a visitor, a cousin of mine, and there was a great deal of smoking and talking; it gave me a dreadful headache, and I went into the garden for an hour. Will you sit any longer, or shall we give it up? I dare say it is difficult, and you seem tired." "No, no," he murmured. He placed himself again in the attitude, but not so well as before. His brain was full of bewildering thoughts, which made his heart beat. "When did you come home?" "I was in the garden for an hour." Was it possible! No, no, it was impossible--it was only an accident. But if he had met her alone in the garden in the dead of night, what would he have said, what would he have done? Everything swam before him. He passed his hand, which he ought to have held up to his brow, across his eyes. "What is the matter?" cried Ferdinanda. The hand dropped, the eyes, which were fixed upon her, shone like flames of fire. "What is the matter," he murmured--"what is the matter! Ho, non lo so neppur io: una febbre che mi divora; ho, che il sangue mi abbrucia, che il cervello mi si spezza; ho, in fine che non ne posso piu, che sono stanco di questa vita!" Ferdinanda had tried to stop this outburst, but without success. She trembled from head to foot; the flaming eyes emitted a spark which penetrated to her own heart, and her voice trembled as she said, as quietly as she could: "You know I cannot understand you when you speak so fast--so wildly." "You did understand me," murmured the youth. "I did not understand anything more than I can see for myself--that you are devoured with fever, that your blood boils to suffocation, that your brain is bursting, that you are tired of life; which means, in German, that you stayed too long yesterday at your club, raved too much about your beloved Italy, and consequently drank too much strong Italian wine." The veins on his white forehead started out in blue lines, and he uttered a hoarse cry like that of a wild beast. He clutched at his breast, where he usually carried his stiletto, but the pocket was empty, and he looked around as if seeking for some weapon. "Would you murder me?" The right hand, which was still clutched in his breast, loosened its grasp and fell by his side; the left hand followed, and the fingers linked themselves together; a rush of tears broke from his eyes: the fire was extinguished, and, sinking on his knees, he faltered: "Mi perdona! Ferdinanda, l'ho amata dal primo giorno che l'ho veduta, ed adesso--ah, adesso!"