For two years the struggle lasted—Vittorino and Paola managing, between them, to dissuade the Marquis from forcing on his daughter’s marriage with a Prince, whose name was beginning to be in all men’s mouths as that of a notorious libertine. It may well be that Gianfrancesco was a little ashamed of himself when he was forced to recognise the true character of his chosen son-in-law. But ashamed or not, he was no more ready to see his brilliant girl bury herself in a Poor Clare’s Cell. To the last, he refused his permission for her entrance into religion; and Cecilia, fearing to bring disaster on the Convent she had chosen, was forced to acquiesce. But a day came when Gianfrancesco had power to make his will felt no longer—a day when he lay very still and cold on a bier of black velvet, and was borne to his tomb in San Francesco. Curiously enough, the Church wherein the great Marchese lay buried was part of the Convent Cecilia had been so anxious to make her home. Nothing stood in the way of the accomplishment of her heart’s desire now; and so it came to pass that the Vows he had so long refused to allow his daughter to take were uttered over Marchese Gianfrancesco’s tomb. [Illustration] MARGARET MORE A Little Schoolgirl of Tudor England PART I. At the foot of the river-stairs nearest the Westminster Law Courts, you might have seen (in the days when the sixteenth century was yet in its teens, King Henry the Eighth, a slim young Prince—the very flower of knighthood—and the Thames, a silver highway of romance,) a private barge, with a couple of blue-coated serving men, waiting for their master. And presently down the steps would come a man with brown hair a little tumbled, and dress a little awry, after a long, hard day’s work in the Courts. Something in the gait—a little defect, one shoulder somewhat higher than the other—might strike your attention, and you would turn to a water-bailiff near you with a question: “Is this Master More?” Then—whether intentionally or not, your whisper having carried further than the ear for which it was ostensibly intended—you would see the uneven shoulders swing suddenly round, and from half-way down the steps a clever face—wonderfully attractive in its irregularity—with a humorous mouth, and merry, grey eyes, would be lifted to you, and a laughing voice would proclaim its owner, “Thomas More, indeed, and very much _more_ at your service.”