care
enough in the hiding-place to which he has crept, that he should draw
upon himself the vengeance of the Borgias?"

She stared at me in ineffable surprise. "But the Lord Giovanni is
brave and valiant," she cried, and down in my heart I laughed in bitter
mockery.

"Do you love the Lord Giovanni, Madonna?" I asked bluntly.

My question seemed to awaken fresh astonishment. It may well be that it
awakened, too, reflection. She was silent for a little space. Then--

"I honour and respect him for a noble, chivalrous and gifted gentleman,"
she answered me, and her answer made me singularly content, spreading a
balm upon the wounds my soul had taken. But to her fresh intercessions
that I should carry a letter to him, I shook my head again. My mood was
stubborn.

"Believe me, Madonna, it were not only unwise, but futile."

She protested.

"I swear it would be," I insisted, with a convincing force that left her
staring at me and wondering whence I derived so much assurance. "We
must wait. From now till Christmas we have more than two months. In two
months much may befall. As a last resource we may consider communication
with the Lord Giovanni. But it is a forlorn hope, Madonna, and so we
will leave it until all else has failed us."

She brightened at my promise that at least if other measures proved
unavailing, we should adopt that course, and her brightening flattered
me, for it bore witness to the supreme confidence she had in me.

"Lazzaro," said she, "I know you will not fail me. I trust you more than
any living mam; more, I think, than even the Lord Giovanni, whom, if God
pleases, I shall some day wed."

"Thanks, Madonna mia," I answered, gratefully indeed. "It is a trust
that I shall ever strive to justify. Meanwhile have faith and hope, and
wait."

Once before, when, to escape the schemes of her brother who would have
wed her to the Lord Giovanni, she had appealed to me, the counsel I had
given her had been much the same as that which I gave her now. At the
irony of it I could have laughed had any other been in question but
Madonna Paola--this tender White Flower of the Quince that was like to
be rudely wilted by the ruthless hands of scheming men.

CHAPTER XII. THE GOVERNOR OF CESENA

That night I would have supped in my own quarters but that Filippo sent
for me and bade me join him and swell the little court he kept. At times
I believe he almost thought that he was the true Lord of Pesaro--an