pure a flame
as ever burned within the heart of man, for the very hopelessness of it
preserved its holy whiteness. What could I do, if I would love her,
but love her as the dog may love his mistress? More was surely not for
me--and to seek more were surely a madness that must earn me less. And
so, I was content to let things be, and keep my heart in check,
thanking God for the mercy of her company at times, and for the precious
confidences she made me, and praying Heaven--for of my love was I grown
devout--that her life might run a smooth and happy course, and ready,
in the furtherance of such an object, to lay down my own should the need
arise. Indeed there were times when it seemed to me that it was a good
thing to be a Fool to know a love of so rare a purity as that--such a
love as I might never have known had I been of her station, and in such
case as to have hoped to win her some day for my own.

One evening of late August, when the vines were heavy with ripe fruit,
and the scent of roses was permeating the tepid air, she drew me from
the throng of courtiers that made merry in the Palace, and led me out
into the noble gardens to seek counsel with me, she said, upon a matter
of gravest moment. There, under the sky of deepest blue, crimsoning to
saffron where the sun had set, we paced awhile in silence, my own senses
held in thrall by the beauty of the eventide, the ambient perfumes
of the air and the strains of music that faintly reached us from the
Palace. Madonna's head was bent, and her eyes were set upon the ground
and burdened, so my furtive glance assured me, with a gentle sorrow.
At length she spoke, and at the words she uttered my heart seemed for a
moment to stand still.

"Lazzaro," said she, "they would have me marry."

For a little spell there was a silence, my wits seeming to have grown
too numbed to attempt to seek an answer. I might be content, indeed, to
love her from a distance, as the cloistered monk may love and worship
some particular saint in Heaven; yet it seems that I was not proof
against jealousy for all the abstract quality of my worship.

"Lazzaro," she repeated presently, "did you hear me? They would have me
marry."

"I have heard some such talk," I answered, rousing myself at last; "and
they say that it is the Lord Giovanni who would prove worthy of your
hand."

"They say rightly, then," she acknowledged. "The Lord Giovanni it is."

Again there was a silence, and again it was she