One second more, and all was lost--but not a
word would come. Then, in sheer despair and with a violence that
betrayed it, he seized one of Beatrice's hands in both of his and kissed
it madly a score of times. As she interpreted the action, no eloquence
of words could have told her more of what she wished to hear. It was
unexpected, it was passionate; if it had been premeditated, it would
have been a stroke of genius. As it was, it was a stroke of luck for
San Miniato. With the true gambler's instinct he saw that he was winning
and his hesitation disappeared. His voice trembled passionately now with
excitement, if not with love--but it was the same to Beatrice, who heard
the quick-spoken words that followed, and drank them in as a thirsty man
swallows the first draught of wine he can lay hands on, be it ever so
acid.
At the first moment she had been startled and had almost uttered a short
cry, half of delight and half of fear. But she had no wish to alarm her
mother and the quick thought stifled her voice. She tried to withdraw
her hand, but he held it tightly in his own which were cold as ice, and
she sat still listening to all he said.
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