a man of genius, as I
said--you have not half a heart amongst you, you great artists! But I
will have my revenge, for I shall go to my own room, and shut myself up
and make myself fit to be seen, while you compose your song!'

'And who will dress your beautiful hair now that Pina has run away?'
laughed Stradella.

'I will. And if I cannot, a certain man of genius, called Alessandro
Stradella, may try his hand at it!'

She ran away laughing, but he caught her before she reached her own
door, and though she struggled, he kissed her on her neck, just where
the red-gold ringlets grew, low down behind her little ear. They behaved
like a pair of runaway lovers, as they were.

But when he was alone his face grew grave and thoughtful, for he knew
there was great danger still. He had been sent home under a guard, a
prisoner still, and there were sentinels outside both doors of the
apartment, who would be relieved at intervals all day, till the time
came for him to be taken to the Quirinal. He might have been somewhat
reassured if he had known that Don Alberto himself was also under arrest
in his bedroom, by the Cardinal's orders; and he might have felt some
satisfaction if he could have seen his enemy's injured nose, swollen to
an unnatural size and covered with sticking-plaster, and if he could
have also realised that it still hurt quite dreadfully; but, on the
other hand, these latter palliative circumstances were likely to make
the real trouble even worse, since that same nose was not to be classed
with common noses, but as a _nasus nepotis Pontificis_, that is,
nepotic, belonging to a Pope's nephew, and therefore quasi-pontifical,
and not to be pulled, struck, or otherwise maltreated with impunity.

Nevertheless, Stradella forgot all about the injured feature and its
possessor in a few minutes, when he had tuned his lute and was sitting
by the table with a sheet of music and a pen at his elbow, for he
thought aloud in soft sounds that often ceased at first and then began
again, but little by little linked themselves together in a melody that
has not perished to this day; and with the music the words came,
touchingly simple, but heart-felt as an angel's tears.

Ortensia heard his voice through the door, and listened, half dressed,
with a happy smile; for she knew the moods of his genius better than he
knew them himself, and she understood that the song he was weaving with
voice and lute would be worthy of him, as it is;