"What do you want of me?" "What is Stefano Maconi to you?" he queried more fiercely, grasping her wrists, and compelling her to raise her eyes to his. "Stefano Maconi is nothing to me!" she replied hoarsely. Never had he spoken thus to her. As their eyes met, she noted that he had changed. With a quick pang she saw how thin and haggard he had grown. "Is this the truth?" Gropingly her hands went out to him, her witch-like eyes held his own and like the cry of a tortured soul it came from her lips: "It is the truth!" Her voice died in a sob; her whole body was shaken with convulsive tremors, when she found herself caught up in his arms. For a moment she abandoned herself wholly to his embrace, while terms of endearment fell deliriously from his lips. Again and again he kissed the pale lips, the eyes of the woman he loved better than life. How long, it seemed to Ilaria, since she had leaned over the parapets of Avellino, had watched the sunset light fade into the night! And one night of all, how slowly the moon had risen! How white the magnolias had shimmered, while the distant Liris sang his slumber song! How the red roses burned in the moonlight, as she stole down the path to meet him! How long ago was it? Now, she could remember every detail of that night; how she started when a sleeping bird uttered a dream note among the leafy boughs, how she listened to her own heart-beats, how she found herself caught up in Francesco's arms. All her youth, all her days had been poisoned by the thought of what she had done. Resolutely, day after day, month after month, had she fought against the demon of remorse. She had shut eyes and ears to the haunting spectre of the past. And now, steadily, pitilessly, she went back, step for step, through the hell of her past life, the mockery that was bitterer than death, the horror of loneliness, the slow, grinding, relentless agony of her nights and days. The crowding phantoms of the past would not release her from their shadowy grip. Why had he again come into her life? Why had he again crossed her path? Staggering, he released her at last, took a backward step and covered his face with his hands. "I have tried not to lay hands on a thing that it is not mine to touch." She pointed to his garb. A wondering look passed into her eyes. At first he noted it not, in the thrall of his own emotions. Then, as she touched him lightly upon the arm, he understood. "I am here, the legate of Clement, carrying the Interdict, unless Naples acknowledges the supremacy of the Church! For this I have laid aside the cowl!" Ilaria shivered. He was still a monk,--after all. There was nothing she could do to help him. That was the bitterest thing of all! Silence seemed to bind the world into a golden swoon. "Francesco," she cried, almost with a sob. He came nearer and took her hands again.