'I knew nothing about the letter,' she said suspiciously. 'And how did you come to have it. It was not written to you.'
'No; it was written to my grandfather and his brother. Both are dead. All are dead of her generation. There is a bailiff in the farmhouse she knew. The letter went to the priest down at Cogne, and he sent it on to me. But I was in Asia, and never received it till this spring, when I returned from the East; and when, as I landed at Naples, I got it, I resolved to come and see you and Joconda. At Santa Tarsilla I heard of her death, and of you no one could tell me anything. I have roamed about your Maremma to look for you. Yesterday, a friend who travelled with me wanted to find out these tombs; and when I saw you I felt sure that you were the "Musa" of Joconda's letter, only I would not speak before the other man. I slept up at a wretched place, San Lionardo, and at sunrise came to see you. That is all. I do not know why you should doubt me.'
She was silent, unconvinced, yet a little touched by his words and troubled at the thought that one of her dead friend's blood should be living and standing before her.
