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 condemned him; and if ever I should be able to prove his innocence, how will he use his liberty? Will he be faithful to her once he ceases to need her? Will he justify her before the world when the world is once more open to him? I doubt; I doubt. Perhaps I shall be able to force him to it; but of what value is extorted honour, is compelled love? I doubt; I doubt. He has no real love for her. He is a wayward, weary child, and she is the only plaything that lies near his hand, the only blossom to be plucked within his reach. That is all; and she—she gives life and eternity, body and soul; she only breathes through his breath, she only sees through his eyes, she only lives by him. That is love. Nothing else is. And if I should set him free tomorrow, what would he do? Forget? I think so. Here his dead love was slain, his passion was closed in death; and he has forgotten that. Once free he will forget this too. He will leave Maremma behind him and remember it no more than he will remember the marsh-lilies that bloomed there last year.'

That he knew; but he had promised to give his life to Este's service. He could not