She ended: ’Faith, St. Charming’s lips make that daintiest setting to his fancies, that I could have kissed ’em while he improved his song with a homily’ (she mimicked again the boy’s manner, comically emphasised). ’"Why," saith he, "would you grudge yourself that poignant privilege of your sex? would ye share the agony and halve the gain? What gift so careless in all the world makes such sweet possession? Furs, gowns, and trinkets pall; perishable things grow less by use; the diamond suffers by its larger peer. Only the gift of love, the wee babe, takes new delight of time; renews woman’s best through herself; is a perpetual novelty, spring all the year round, flowers fresh burgeoning through faded blooms. To be sole warden of the quickening soul ye bore—you, you! to see the lamb-like heaven of its eyes cuddling to your bosom’s fold—all thine, save the spent heat that cast it! O, rather be the mould than the turbulent metal it shapes! Go to, and thank God for labours yielding such reward. Go to, and be the mother of saints." Whereat I curtsied, and "Thank you, sir," says I, "for the offer, but my bed’s already laid for me in Rome," and then——’ What more she might have quoted or invented none might say, for at the moment a wild figure burst into the chamber, and ran to its mistress, and entreated her with lips and hands. ’Give me thy gage—quick! There is one starves in the "Hermit’s Cell," and they will not let me pass to him without. Thou art the Duke, thou art the Duke now. Give it me, in mercy, and avert God’s vengeance from this wicked house!’ Bona had arisen, pale as death, pity and anguish pleading in her eyes. ’Alas! What say’st thou? Thou, not I, art the Duke.’ ’Give it me,’ demanded Bembo feverishly. ’Nay, quibble not, while he gasps out his agony—a monk—hear’st thou? A monk!’ She temporised a moment in her pain. ’There are black sheep in those flocks.’ ’God forgive thee!’ ’Alas! _thou_ wilt not. Indeed I have no talisman will open doors that my lord has shut.’ Beatrice, intent, with veiled eyes, from her place, bestirred herself with an indolent smile. ’Madonna forgets. Love laughs at locksmiths.’ The two women faced one another a minute. Some subtle emotion of antagonism, already born, waxed into a larger consciousness between them. ’How, Countess?’ said Bona quietly. ’Madonna wears her bethrothal ring—a very _passepartout_. It is the talisman will serve her with monks and saints alike.’ A little flush mantled to the Duchess’s brow. Standing erect a moment she slipped the ring from her finger, and held it out to Bernardo. ’It should be the pledge through love of Charity. Take it, in my lord’s good name, whose jealous representative I remain. And when thou return’st it, may it be sanctified of new justice, child, against the prick of envy and slander and the spite of venomous tongues.’