She had seen a man, brave, strong, simple and true, with the death mark of his love for her upon his face.

What matter if he were but an unlettered sailor, scarcely knowing what moved him nor the words he spoke?
Beatrice was a woman and, womanlike, she knew without proof or testimony that his heart and hands were clean of the few sins which woman really despises in man.
They are not many--be it said in honour of womanly generosity and kindness--they are not many, those bad deeds which a woman cannot forgive, and that she is right is truly shown in that those are the sins which the most manly men despise in others.

They are, I think, cowardice, lying for selfish ends, betraying tales of woman's weakness--almost the greatest of crimes--and, greatest of all, faithlessness in love.
Let a man be brave, honest, discreet, faithful, and a woman will forgive him all manner of evil actions, even to murder and bloodshed; but let him flinch in danger, lie to save himself, tell the name of a woman whose love for him has betrayed her, or break his faith to her without boldly saying that he loves her no more, and she will not forgive him while he lives, though she may give him a kindly thought and a few tears when he is gone for ever.
So Beatrice, who could never love Ruggiero, understood him well and judged him rightly, and set him up on a sort of pedestal as the anti-type of his scheming master.

And not only this.

She felt deeply for him and pitied him with all her heart, since she had seen his own almost breaking before her eyes for her sake.