There would be
time, perhaps, when he was removed to the prison--to the place of
safety and secrecy, of which the cardinal had spoken, and which in
all probability was the Holy Office. No questions were asked
there.
There were writing materials on the broad table, and Giovanni
began a letter to his wife. After a few minutes, however, he
stopped, for he saw from what he had written that he was in no
condition to attempt such a task. The words came quickly and
fluently, but they expressed what he had no intention of telling
Corona again. His love for her was still uppermost in his mind,
and instead of trying to explain what had occurred, he found
himself setting down phrases that told of nothing but a mad
passion. The thought of her cold face when she should read the
lines arrested his hand, and he threw down the pen impatiently,
and returned to his meditations for a while. What he wanted to do
was to tell her in the fewest possible words that he was alive and
well. What else should he tell her? The statement would allay any
anxiety she might feel, and his absence would doubtless be a
relief to her. The thought was bitter, but he knew that nothing
exasperates a woman like the constant presence of a man she has
loved, who loves her more than ever, and for whom she no longer
feels anything.
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