e of you, it was
because you have turned my blood to fire and my heart to flame----'

'Hush!' Ortensia laid one hand warningly upon his arm, and at the same
time she drew herself up with great dignity, and her face was proud and
cold. 'I give no man the right to speak of love to me----'

'Wait!' interrupted Altieri. 'Wait, forgive, pity if you can, but hear
me out! Far be it from me to slight your honour, soul of my soul, heart
of my body!--for my own is gone, and you are in its place, and without
you I should surely die! No--do not fear me! See, I stand back from you,
you cannot even reach me with your hand as you did just now. But I must
speak, and you shall hear me. I know your story, for the Venetian
Ambassador has told all Rome how you lived in your uncle's house in
miserable slavery, and how he meant to force you to be his wife, and
that rather than submit to such an outrage you ran away with your
music-master--we all know the truth about it, from the Pope, and my
uncle the Cardinal, and the Queen, to the little page who carries
Princess Colonna's train at a papal audience! There is nothing more
romantic and adventurous in all the tales of Boccaccio and Bandello, and
whatever the Senator Pignaver may attempt by way of revenge you may be
sure that Rome will protect you. But now that you are free, now that the
world lies before you and at your feet, will you not choose a man worthy
of your birth and name?'

'A lover, sir?' asked Ortensia indignantly.

She had slowly moved backwards while he was speaking, till she leaned
against the pedestal of a colossal bust of Juno.

'Heaven forbid!' said Don Alberto. 'I mean a husband----'

'You seem to forget that I am married,' Ortensia replied, with rising
anger.

'I would quarrel with any man who dared suggest that you do not believe
it,' said Don Alberto gravely.

'What do you mean?' She started, and a quick flush rose to her cheeks,
but subsided instantly, leaving her pale.

'It takes more than a mere sacristan's trick to make a real marriage,'
answered Don Alberto enigmatically. 'Do not be indignant, dearest lady!
Let me speak. You were married in the sacristy of San Domenico at
Ferrara. Do not be surprised that I know it. The Legate there, Monsignor
Pelagetti, is afraid of getting into trouble for having imprisoned
Stradella by mistake, and he has sent my uncle a full and precise
account of all that happened. The Mother Superior of the Ursulines
informed him of