With his eye trained to perceive beauty in the lowliest flower, the most fleeting phase of nature, he had rendered instant justice to the personal beauty of Este, to his supple panther-like grace, to his patrician's air, to his face that was such as Lionardo might have seen in a vision of Adonis.
He understood everything now.
He needed to ask no question.
He had seen the printed notice all along the coast, offering the Government reward for the apprehension of Luitbrand d'Este. One glance at Este's face and hers had told him all he had to know.
He guessed the whole story, and he understood why she had guarded her secret so fiercely and had threatened his own life under her terror of the law.
He smiled once, bitterly.
'Poor Joconda!' he thought, 'of what use was it to stretch a dead hand from the grave?'
Then he remembered that Joconda's body was lying there, within a few feet of him.
The remembrance subdued the sardonic bitterness which was coupled with his pain. He sat still there, and time went on, and the evening deepened into night.
