Ginevra saw his agitation, and the restraint which he put upon his anger touched her to the heart; she expected some violent crisis, some ungovernable fury; she had not armed her soul against paternal gentleness. “Father,” she said, in a tender voice, “no, you shall never be abandoned by your Ginevra. But love her a little for her own sake. If you know how he loves me! Ah! _He_ would never make me unhappy!” “Comparisons already!” cried Piombo, in a terrible voice. “No, I can never endure the idea of your marriage. If he loved you as you deserve to be loved he would kill me; if he did not love you, I should put a dagger through him.” The hands of the old man trembled, his lips trembled, his body trembled, but his eyes flashed lightnings. Ginevra alone was able to endure his glance, for her eyes flamed also, and the daughter was worthy of the sire. “Oh! to love you! What man is worthy of such a life?” continued Piombo. “To love you as a father is paradise on earth; who is there worthy to be your husband?” “_He_,” said Ginevra; “he of whom I am not worthy.” “He?” repeated Piombo, mechanically; “who is _he_?” “He whom I love.” “How can he know you enough to love you?” “Father,” said Ginevra, with a gesture of impatience, “whether he loves me or not, if I love him--” “You love him?” cried Piombo. Ginevra bent her head softly. “You love him more than you love us?” “The two feelings cannot be compared,” she replied. “Is one stronger than the other?” “I think it is,” said Ginevra. “You shall not marry him,” cried the Corsican, his voice shaking the window-panes. “I shall marry him,” replied Ginevra, tranquilly. “Oh, God!” cried the mother, “how will this quarrel end? Santa Virgina! place thyself between them!” The baron, who had been striding up and down the room, now seated himself; an icy sternness darkened his face; he looked fixedly at his daughter, and said to her, in a gentle, weakened voice,-- “Ginevra, no! you will not marry him. Oh! say nothing more to-night--let me think the contrary. Do you wish to see your father on his knees, his white hairs prostrate before you? I supplicate you--” “Ginevra Piombo does not pass her word and break it,” she replied. “I am your daughter.” “She is right,” said the baroness. “We are sent into the world to marry.” “Do you encourage her in disobedience?” said the baron to his wife, who, terrified by the word, now changed to marble. “Refusing to obey an unjust order is not disobedience,” said Ginevra. “No order can be unjust from the lips of your father, my daughter. Why do you judge my action? The repugnance that I feel is counsel from on high, sent, it may be, to protect you from some great evil.” “The only evil could be that he did not love me.” “Always _he_!” “Yes, always,” she answered. “He is my life, my good, my thought. Even if I obeyed you he would be ever in my soul. To forbid me to marry him is to make me hate you.” “You love us not!” cried Piombo.