e with impossible
suggestions? He had the eyes of a poet, that lad, and he might have
served my turn."

"He may still serve you, Uncle Ippolito, for he has quarrelled with
Luigi, and is in Rome."

"And wherefore in Rome? To curry favour with Cardinal de' Medici?"

"Possibly, for Tasso is writing a great epic on the taking of
Jerusalem by Godfrey of Bouillon and his crusaders."

"'Tis no epic that I wish, but a pastoral--a mere trifle. Yet not so
fast. A poem such as you describe, if it were indeed a work of genius,
might rouse Christendom to another crusade, a life-work worthy of the
next Pope. Lucrezia, the boy must not submit his poem to Cardinal de'
Medici. Can you summon him to me, and will he come instantly?"

"If Leonora calls him," the Duchess replied, "he will come."

Cardinal Ippolito lifted his eyebrows almost imperceptibly and darted a
keen, sidelong glance at Leonora. She had not heard her sister's last
remark, the name of Torquato Tasso had obliterated the present and she
was gazing dreamily at the rainbow-tinted dome of St. Peter's.

"Leonora," the Cardinal said softly, "have you heard what Lucrezia was
saying, that this young poet has written an epic? If I could see it I
might be able to help him in his career, perhaps give him fame."

"O Uncle, will you? How good you are! I will write him at once."

"My dear, I am not good, or disinterested. I am a selfish, an ambitious
old man. This festival, given ostensibly for the entertainment of my
friends and to introduce my charming nieces, is a part of my deep,
ulterior motives. Come, I will confess the machinations of my wicked old
heart. Why not, since my ambitions are for you as well as for myself?
Nay, Leonora, never flush and tremble, I have no wish to buy my own
advancement by selling you to some degenerate prince. Matchmaking is not
my kind of diplomacy. I have seen enough in our own family of
magnificence won through the martyrdom of women. Your mother, Renee of
France, though a king's daughter, brought with her a dowry of
unhappiness. My own mother, innocent though she was, bequeathed to us
the shameful legacy of the Borgias' deeds and instincts. You may be
happy, Lucrezia, with your Duke of Urbino. I ask no confidences, but I
am glad that I am not responsible for your marriage.

"You, at least, Leonora, shall live your own life wedded or unwedded as
you like. I shall be so great that I can ennoble whom I will, and you,
beloved child, shall b