’Not I. Keep off! I am as Filippo made me—after his own image. He was a God—could name me man or woman. ’Twas but a word; and lo! too hideous for my sex, I leapt, his male Fool. That, of all jests, was his first. He spared me for it. I had been strangled else.’ ’Mother!’ Again that moving, rapturous cry, ’No, no!’ cried the Fool. ’Barren—barren—no woman, even! Still as God wrought me, and human taste condemned. Let be. Forget what I said. Let me go on and serve thee—sexless—only to myself confessing, not thou awarding. I ask no more, nor sweeter—O my babe, my babe!’ ’Mother!’ ’Hush! break not my heart—not yet. This darkness? Speak it once more. Why, I might be beautiful. Will you think it—will you, letting me ply you with my conscious sweets? I could try. I’ve studied in the markets. Your starving rogue’s the best connoisseur of savours. I’ll not come near you—only sigh and soothe. I’ll tune myself to speak so soft—school myself out of your knowledge. Perchance, God helping, you shall think me fair.’ ’Mother!’ Once more—and he was in her arms. Surely the loveliest miracle that could have blossomed in that grave—a breaking of roses from the pilgrim’s dead staff! Henceforth Bernardo’s path was rapture—a song of love and jubilance—his spirit flamed and trembled out in song. They had spared him his lute; and his fingers, strong in their instinct to the last, were seldom long parted from its strings. He lay much in his Fool mother’s lap; and one had scarcely known when their converse melted into music, or out of music into speech, so melodious was their love, so rapt their soul-union, and so triumphant over pain and darkness, as to evoke of fell circumstance its own balm-breathing, illuminating spirits. What was this horror of bleak, black burial, when at a word, a struck chord, one could see it quiver and break into a garden of splendid fancies! Once only was their dying exaltation recalled to earth—to consciousness of their near escape from all its hate and squalor. It happened in a moment; and so shall suffer but a moment’s record. There came a sudden laugh and flare—and there was Tassino, torch in hand, looking from the grate above. ’Ehi, Messer Bembo!’ yapped the cur; ’art there? And I here? What does omnipotence in this reverse? Arise, and prove thyself. Lucia’s dead; the Duke’s returned; Milan is itself again. The memory of thee rots in the gutter; and stinks—fah! I go to the Duchess soon. What message to her, bastard of an Abbot?’ The boy raised his head. ’The season’s, Tassino,’ he whispered, smiling. ’Peace and goodwill.’ The filthy creature mouthed and snarled. ’Ay. Most sweet. I’ll wait thine agony, though, before I give it. She’ll cry, then; and I shall be by; and, look you, emotion is the mother of desire. I’ll pillow her upon thy corpse, bastard, and quicken her with new lust of wickedness. She’ll never have loved me more. God! what a use for a saint!’