among so many lies written in marbles and bronzes. She could redeem her fault with nothing, not only was she not content to dwell at the graveside, but she had given herself to another and still dared to present herself before his portrait, defying its wrath. Trembling with terror she recalled a mutual oath sworn in those happy times, when in their flight across half the Republic, they enjoyed a relative calm in hotels and wayside inns. The sight of a country graveyard, peculiarly situated, had saddened them; with hands clasped, they were walking after supper before the inn, when Alberto, affected by one of those presentiments which so often appear in the midst of joy, as if to remind us that no happiness is lasting, clasped her to his bosom, and stroking her hair, had asked her: “What would you do, if I should die?”
She had answered him with tears, shuddering; had stopped his mouth with her hand; had promised him, sincerely, with all her loving heart and her voice broken with sobs, that she would die also, but Alberto had insisted, who can say whether already possessed with his coming suicide, had begged her to make him an answer.