The time was past when he could feel that an
unbroken chain of evidence had justified him in doubting and
accusing Corona. He knew the woman he had injured better now than
he had known her then, for he understood the whole depth and
breadth of the love he had so ruthlessly destroyed. It was
incredible to him, now, that he should ever have mistrusted a
creature so noble, so infinitely grander than himself. Every tear
she shed fell like molten fire upon his heart, every sob that
echoed through the quiet room was a reproach that racked his
heart-strings and penetrated to the secret depths of his soul. He
could neither undo what he had done nor soothe the pain inflicted
by his actions. He could only stand there, and submit patiently to
the suffering of his expiation.
The passionate outburst subsided at last, and Corona lay pale and
silent upon her cushions. She knew what he felt, and pitied him
more than herself.
"It is foolish of me to cry," she said presently. "It cannot help
you."
"Help me?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning suddenly. "It is not I, it
is you. I would have died to save you those tears."
"I know it--would I not give my life to spare you this? And I
will. Come and sit beside me. Take my hand. Kiss me--be your own
self.
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