She had withdrawn her hand from his during his passionate speech, and stood back from him against the dark wall of green plants, her head drooping upon her breast, her fingers clasped fast together.

His short rude words were terribly sweet to hear, it was fearful to think that she was alone with him, that one step would bring her to his side, that with one passionate impulse she might throw her white arms about his neck, that one faltering sigh of overwhelming love might bring her queenly head down upon his shoulder.

Ah, God! how gladly she would let her tears flow and speak for her! how unutterably sweet it would be rest for one instant in his arms, to love and be loved as she longed to be! "You are so cold," he cried, passionately.

"You cannot understand.

All spoken words are not too much, are not enough to move you, to make you see that I do really worship and adore you; you, the whole of you--your glorious face, your sweet small hands, your queenly ways, the light of your eyes, and the words of your lips--all of you, body and soul, I love.
I would I might die now, for you know it, even if you will not understand--" He moved a step nearer to her, stretching out his hands as he spoke.
Corona trembled convulsively, and her lips turned white in the torture of temptation; she leaned far back against the green leaves, staring wildly at Giovanni, held as in a vice by the mighty passions of love and fear.
Having yielded her ears to his words, they fascinated her horribly.