uple of pages, and a half-dozen
gentlemen of her uncle's court. One of these--that same Gonzaga who had
escorted her from the Convent of Santa Sofia--most splendidly arrayed in
white taby, his vest and doublet rich with gold, sat upon a low stool,
idly fingering the lute in his lap, from which Gian Maria inferred that
his had been the voice that had reached him in the ante-chamber.

At the Duke's advent they all rose saving Valentina and received him
with a ceremony that somewhat chilled his ardour. He advanced; then
halted clumsily, and in a clumsy manner framed a request that he might
speak with her alone. In a tired, long-suffering way she dismissed that
court of hers, and Gian Maria stood waiting until the last of them had
passed out through the tall windows that abutted on to a delightful
terrace, where, in the midst of a green square, a marble fountain
flashed and glimmered in the sunlight.

"Lady," he said, when they were at last alone, "I have news from
Babbiano that demands my instant return." And he approached her by
another step.

In truth he was a dull-witted fellow or else too blinded by fatuity
to see and interpret aright the sudden sparkle in her eye, the sudden,
unmistakable expression of relief that spread itself upon her face.

"My lord," she answered, in a low, collected voice, "we shall grieve at
your departure."

Fool of a Duke that he was! Blind, crass and most fatuous of wooers! Had
he been bred in courts and his ears attuned to words that meant nothing,
that were but the empty echoes of what should have been meant; was he so
new to courtesies in which the heart had no share, that those words of
Valentina's must bring him down upon his knees beside her, to take
her dainty fingers in his fat hands, and to become transformed into a
boorish lover of the most outrageous type?

"Shall you so?" he lisped, his glance growing mighty amorous. "Shall you
indeed grieve?"

She rose abruptly to her feet.

"I beg that your Highness will rise," she enjoined him coldly, a
coldness which changed swiftly to alarm as her endeavours to release her
hand proved vain. For despite her struggles he held on stoutly. This was
mere coyness, he assured himself, mere maidenly artifice which he must
bear with until he had overcome it for all time.

"My lord, I implore you!" she continued. "Bethink you of where you
are--of who you are."

"Here will I stay until the crack of doom," he answered, with an odd
mixture of