"You shall hear the truth," she gasped, leaning against the wall for support. "I have lived long, these many months, in my dreary home, unseeing you, uncared for, knowing only that you were happy with another. Giovanni, can you picture what I endured? My mother died--you may have heard of it--and her relations sent for me into their distant country, and would have comforted me; but I remained on alone to be near you. I struggled much with my unhappy passion. My very soul was wearing away with despair. I would see you pass sometimes at a distance with your retainers--and that was heaven to me. Then came a thought into my mind; I wrestled with it, and would have driven it away--but there it was, ever urging me; it may be that my better angel sent it there; it may be that the Evil One, who is ever tempting us for ill, drove it on." "What mean you?" he inquired. "It suggested," she continued in a low voice, "that if but to see you at a distance, and at rare intervals, could almost compensate for my life of misery, what bliss would be mine were I living under the roof of your own castle, liable to see you any hour of the day; hence you find me numbered amongst your wife's waiting-maids. And blame me not, Giovanni," she hastily concluded, seeing him about to interrupt her; "you are the cause of all, for you sought and gained my love; and such love! I think none can have ever known such. And yet I must suppress this love. The fiercest jealousy of the Lady Adelaide rages in my heart--and yet I must suppress it! Giovanni, you have brought this anguish upon me; so blame me not." "It is a dangerous proceeding, Gina. I was becoming reconciled to our separation; but now--it will be dangerous for both of us." "Ay," she answered, bitterly, "you had all. Friends, revelry, a wife of rare beauty, the chase, the bustle of an immense household--in short, what had you not to aid your mental struggles? I but my home of solitude, and the jealous pictures, self, but ever inflicted, of your happiness with the Lady Adelaide." "I still love but you, Gina," he repeated, "but I will be honorable to _her_, and must show it not." "Do I ask you to show it? or think you I would permit it?" she replied quickly; "no, no; I did not come here to sow discord in your household. Suffer me to live on unnoticed as of these last few days, but, oh! drive me not away from you." "Believe me, Gina, this will never do. I mistrust my own powers of endurance; ay, and of concealment." "You can think of me but as the waiting-maid of your lady," she interrupted, in a tone of bitterness. "In time you will really regard me as such." "There would be another obstacle, Gina," he returned, sinking his voice to a lower tone, as if fearful even to mention the subject--"how can you live in my household, and not conform to the usages of our faith? You know that yours must never be suspected." "Trust to me to manage all," she reiterated; "but send me not away from you."