vaguely
suggesting that you are not indisposed to the Lord Giovanni's suit."

"That were deceit," she protested.

"A trusty weapon with which to combat tyranny," said I.

"Well? And then?" she questioned. "Such a state of things cannot endure
for ever. It must end some day."

I shook my head, and I smiled down upon her a smile that was very full
of confidence.

"That day will never dawn, unless the Lord Giovanni's impatience
transcends all bounds."

She looked at me, a puzzled glance in her eyes, a bewildered expression
knitting her fine brows.

"I do not take your meaning, my friend," she complained.

"Then mark the enucleation. I will expound this meaning of mine through
the medium of a parable. In Babylon of old, there dwelt a king whose
name was Belshazzar, who, having fallen into habits of voluptuousness
and luxury, was so enslaved by them as to feast and make merry whilst
a certain Darius, King of the Medes, was marching in arms against his
capital. At a feast one night the fingers of a man's hand were seen to
write upon the wall, and the words they wrote were a belated warning:
'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.'"

She looked at me, her eyes round with inquiry, and a faint smile of
uncertainty on her lips.

"Let me confess that your elucidation helps me but little."

"Ponder it, Madonna," I urged her. "Substitute Giovanni Sforza for
Belshazzar, Cesare Borgia for King Darius, and you have the key to my
parable."

"But is it indeed so? Does danger threaten Pesaro from that quarter?"

"Aye, does it," I answered, almost impatiently. "The tide of war is
surging up, and presently will whelm us utterly. Yet here sits the Lord
Giovanni making merry with balls and masques and burle and banquets,
wholly unprepared, wholly unconscious of his peril. There may be no hand
to write a warning on his walls--or else, as in the case of Babylon, the
hand will write when it is too late to avert the evil--yet there are not
wanting other signs for those that have the wit to read them; nor is a
wondrous penetration needed."

"And you think then--" she began.

"I think that if you are obdurate with him, he and your brother
may hurry you by force into this union. But if you temporise with
half-promises, with suggestions that before Christmas you may grow
reconciled to his wishes, he will be patient."

"But what if Christmas comes and finds us still in this position?"

"It will need a miracle for that; or, at least, the de