The words were uttered almost brutally. "I do not understand!" she replied icily. "Why are you at Naples?" His face was a mere whiteness amid shadows. "Why are you here?" she replied, straightening with a sharp lifting of the head. "Perhaps I am here to spy on you!" "The office does you honor! First, a traitor--then, a spy--" Her words were fierce and bitter. "What are you saying?" he flashed. "Betrayal is not man's prerogative alone!" She shuddered. His words bit brutally into the truth. For a moment she stood rigid, searching his eyes and the very depths of his soul. And so, for a brief space, they faced each other in silence. Francesco acknowledged anew, and with a mortal pang, that here was a woman for whom a man might give his life and count it naught. A woman to gain whose love, a man might sell his soul. Ilaria had come into her own, as never in her earlier youth. Like all great beauty, hers was serious. It had acquired a touch of majesty and mystery, a depth of intensity and significance. "Is Raniero at Naples?" Francesco spoke at last. She faced him defiantly, as if resenting his attitude. "I knew not you were concerned in your former rival!" Her utterance seemed part of the incomprehensible cruelty of life. His face was hard and white as he regarded her. "Perchance my concern is all for my present one!" "I do not understand--" she faltered, her hands over her bosom. Yet her tone had lost its defiant ring. As in mute questioning her eyes were on his face. "As I passed down the Via Forinara last night, I passed a woman and a man. The woman was garbed in crimson, and there was no sign of recognition in her eyes. The woman I knew. Who was the man?" Ilaria's face was very pale. "What is he to you,--the monk?" He came a step nearer. "Who was the man?" She gave a little nervous laugh. "Stefano Maconi,--one of the nobles of the court!" she said, with a drooping of the head. Then with a quick touch of resentment: "Have you heard the name before?" Francesco ignored the irony of her tones. "What is he to you?" he queried sternly. His face looked pale and drawn, his eyes shone with an almost supernatural lustre. "Really," she squirmed, "I knew not that I stood in need of a confessor. I have one already,--and I do not intend to supplant him with another!" "You have not answered my question!" he insisted. "To the office of your confessor I do not aspire. I am not suited for that exalted position!" There was something in his eyes that frightened her. "And why?"--she faltered. "I should not prove so passive a listener!" For a moment she faced him in silence. Then, with a sudden return of her old hauteur, she flashed: "Of what do you accuse me?" He did not speak. But the look he gave her sent the hot blood curdling to her cheeks; ebbing back, it left them paler than before. "You have not answered my question!" he said at last. She lifted heavy lids and eyed him wondering, as one waking from a dream.