Nanina's eyes still followed his mechanically. He seemed
to feel their influence, for he suddenly looked down at her
again.
"What keeps you silent? Why are you afraid?" he said. "I can do
you no harm, with your dog at your side, and the workmen yonder
within call. I can do you no harm, and I wish to do you none. Go
back to Pisa; tell what you have heard, restore the man you love
to himself, and ruin me. That is your work; do it! I was never
your enemy, even when I distrusted you. I am not your enemy now.
It is no fault of yours that a fatality has been accomplished
through you--no fault of yours that I am rejected as the
instrument of securing a righteous restitution to the Church.
Rise, child, and go your way, while I go mine, and prepare for
what is to come. If we never meet again, remember that I parted
from you without one hard saying or one harsh look--parted from
you so, knowing that the first words you speak in Pisa will be
death to my character, and destruction to the great purpose of my
life."
Speaking these words, always with the same calmness which had
marked his manner from the first, he looked fixedly at her for a
little while, sighed again, and turned away. Just before he
disappeared among the trees, he said "Farewell," but so softly
that she could barely hear it. Some strange confusion clouded her
mind as she lost sight of him.
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