’She _is_ my purpose,’ said the boy—’or _was_, alack!’ ’Is and was,’ growled the other. ’Well, ’tis true that for the purpose of thy purpose _I_ remain; but then I don’t count. What am _I_ to thee?’ ’My love, beyond all women.’ ’I am? That’s much. Now will we do without the Duchess.’ ’Alas!’ ’Shall we not?’ ’She hath so nursed my flock to pasture—the kind ewe-mother. The bell was about her neck. Now, it seems, she will have neither bell nor shepherd, and the flock must stray.’ ’Hath she in truth cast thee? On what pretext?’ ’Nay, I know not. It seemed the twin-brother of him that once she used for loving me.’ ’Ay, it is their way. But scorn, for your part, to show caloric as she cools.’ ’Alas!’ ’Trust me there. What had you said to chill her?’ ’Nothing that I know, but to crave her ear a moment.’ ’It is the sink of slander in a woman—a pink shell with a dead fish inside. Yet thy whisper might have sweetened it.’ ’Stung it rather. Carlo, I know not what to do.’ ’Tell me.’ ’Shall I, indeed? I fear thee. Wilt thou be gentle?’ ’As a lamb.’ ’Well, then, I’ll tell thee—I am so lost. Carlo, dear, I know where the ring is.’ ’You do? Do you see how calm I am? Where is it?’ ’Beatrice hath it—thy Beatrice.’ ’You know that?’ ’She sent to tell me—last night. God help me, Carlo, for a credulous fool!’ ’You went to her? Well?’ ’She would give it me, Carlo—O Carlo! on such a condition!’ ’Which if you refused——?’ ’It shall be a fatal ring to me, she ended.’ ’Shall it?—or to her? Well, that’s said. And now, wilt thou go rest a little, sweetheart, while I think? I cannot think in company.’ ’I will go, but not to rest.’ ’Pooh! thy Fool shall drug thy folly with his greater.’ ’Alas! he’s gone.’ ’Gone?’ ’He too. Nay, blaspheme not. He had his reasons.’ ’For what?’ ’For leaving me awhile. "My folly starves on thine ambrosia," he said. "I would fain feed it a little on human flesh."’ ’How long’s he gone?’ ’Some days.’ ’Let him keep out of my way when he returns.’ ’I’ll not love you if you hurt him.’ ’Then I’ll not hurt him. Thy love is mine, and thy confidence, look you. This ring—speak not a word on it, to Bona or another, till I bid you.’ ’Then I will not.’ ’That’s good. God rest you, sweetling.’ He watched him go, with frowning eyes; then, no message coming to him from the hall, strode off to his own quarters in the palace, and bided there all day. ’These women,’ was the burden of his fury—’these women—soulless beasts! To aim at winning heaven by debauching its angel!—there’s their morality in a nutshell! But I’ll send him back there first. So Beatrice hath the ring! What will she do with it? What shall I with the knowledge? God! if my wits could run with my rage! To forestall her, else——’ His fingers worked, as he tramped, on the jewelled hilt of his poniard.