Her instinct told her that he wanted neither pity nor forgiveness nor comfort.
"You are a brave, strong man, Ruggiero; I will always pray that you may love some one who will love you again--since you can love so well." The unspoiled girl's nature had found the right expression, and the only one.

Ruggiero looked at her one moment, stooped and touched the hem of her white frock with two fingers and then pressed them silently to his lips.

Who knows from what far age that outward act of submission and vassalage has been handed down in southern lands?
There it is to this day, rarely seen, but still surviving and still known to all.
Then Ruggiero turned away and went up the sloping rocks again, and Beatrice stood still for a moment, watching his tall, retreating figure.
She meant to go, too, but she lingered a while, knowing that if ever she came back to Tragara, this would be the spot where she would pause and recall a memory, and not that other, where she had sat while San Miniato played out his wretched little comedy.
It all rushed across her mind again, bringing a new sense of disgust and repulsion with it, and a new blush of shame and anger at having been so deceived.

There was no doubt now.

The contrast had been too great, too wide, too evident.