“I am convinced,” he went on, “that you do not realise the extent of the cruelty, the wickedness of the act you contemplate. You can not be aware of the severity of the blow you would deal me. I have bought the old Barbiondi palace in Milan, and men are at work preparing it for our occupancy. I have the promise of the King to dine with us on our return from abroad. All Italy awaits--but enough. You need not be told the details. To consummate the deed you have undertaken would be infamous. For me it means a disaster that time could not repair, and for you--you would reproach yourself for ever; it would haunt you all your days, and be a curse to you. But you will not do it, Donna Hera. Ah, no; you will not. Nor would Mario Forza have asked it of you had he paused to see the terrible injustice to me. I say he would not, provided, of course, he is the high-souled gentleman you believe him to be. Could he see the wrong in the magnitude that you see it now, I am sure that he as well as I would beg you to desist--to stand true to your promise.” It was not by chance that Tarsis brought the name of Mario into his plea, and in the effect he perceived it had on Hera he knew he had reckoned well. She stood with her back to him now, a hand pressed to each temple. “So confident am I that Signor Forza would do me justice,” Tarsis continued, “that I beg you in the name of your honour to appeal to him, to send for him at once and put my fate in his hands. I pledge myself to abide by what he says.” Slowly she moved away and sank into a chair, preoccupied with the thought he had suggested. “I will do as you wish,” she said, presently, confident that Mario would hold her to the path their love had chosen. “But that is impossible,” she added, after a glance at the clock. “He said he would leave Viadetta in time to join the Roman express at Milan.” “Signor Forza goes to Rome to-night?” the other asked, in astonishment that was spurious, for he had heard all that Mario said to her at the parting in the chapel. “Yes; and it is too late to reach him,” she replied, precisely as Tarsis had expected. “Signor Forza’s departure for Rome,” he hastened to tell her, “does not present any serious difficulty in the way of communicating with him, if it is still your wish to pursue that course.” “It is my wish; of that you may be assured,” she said, positively, in the full belief that there could be only one decision by Mario Forza. “How can I communicate with him?” “By making use of the telegraph. A message to Rome, delivered in the railway station at the instant of his arrival, if answered at once, would make it possible for you to have his advice by midnight.” “Ahem!” It was Donna Beatrice. She had paused on the threshold, and stood looking from one to the other, puzzled by the serious aspect of the scene.