the Borgia had eyes for nothing but the beauty of her. The
moment he saw her, he drew, as once before, a sharp breath; she greeted
him in her fashion; he was moved to a fit of trembling.

From that time forth Amilcare was as though he were not. The Roman
waited for no invitation and disregarded those he got. Would his Grace
be pleased to dine? His Grace went on pouring out his talk to the
wonderful rose-coloured lady. Amilcare, patient to excess, watched.
Presently Cesare said, "Madama, shall we go to dinner?" and to dinner
they went, Amilcare rubbing his hands behind them.

They found the table prepared--a very low one; divans to sit upon; none
but Grifone, pale and respectful, in the little painted chamber.

All this had been carefully provided. The Duke's suite dined in another
wing of the palace; the choir of minstrels, who held the passage between
them, had mail under their cassocks, and two-edged swords made for
thrusting. They were fifty strong. Every page-in-waiting in the hall and
long cool passages was a "Centaur" armed to the teeth. Don Cesare, it
seems, had walked into a steel trap at last. Do you wonder that Amilcare
could afford a supple back?

But as the delicate meats succeeded each other--each duly tasted by
Grifone before a morsel went to plate--there was one, in the surge of
her terrors, struck dumb with what was, rather, wonder. The magnificent
Cesare went his road over the feelings of his host; the host bowed and
waved his hands. Why should he not? Never one word of answer, never a
gleam of attention did he win from the Roman. Why should he care? His
wife was doing her duty, his enemy was webbed: what else could matter?
The Italian shrug goes deeper than the shoulders; sometimes it strokes
the heart of a man. The very indignities heaped upon the adventurer made
his revenge the sweeter nursling.

But Molly, the tall English girl, burning in her shameful robe, saw it
vastly otherwise. That a man could bend so low! That she should ever
have loved a man with such a stooping back! To think of that made (for
the moment) every other degradation light. Her part as yet was one of
sufferance: to look handsome, languid with the excess of her burden of
beauty; to smile slowly, to keep her eyes on her lap. Pure passivity all
this, under which the miserable soul could torture in secret. As she
often had a back-ache, it was easy to wilt among her cushions; as she
was always mute before flattery, to smile was a