’Know me!’ she said. ’Didst thou ever know me? Only as the bull knows the soft heifer—the nearest to his needs. _Thou_ hast done with me—_thou_! I tell thee, if Fate had made a sacrament of thy passion, yielding the visible sign, I had brought hither the monstrous pledge and drowned it like a dog. Do we so treat what we love? I am not guilty of Bernardo’s death, if that is what you mean.’ He let her go, and retreated a step, glaring at her. Her blood ebbed and flowed as tranquilly as her low voice had stabbed. ’This—to my face!’ he gasped. Then he broke into furious laughter. ’Art well requited, if it is the truth. Love him! But, dead or alive, he will not love thee—that saint—a wife dishonoured.’ ’O noble bull—thou king of beasts!’ she murmured. ’Why should I be generous?’ he snarled. ’Have I reason to spare thee? Yet I will be generous, an thou art guiltless of this, Beatrice. I have loved thee, after my fashion.’ ’Thou hast. Ah! If I might sponge away that memory!’ ’Well, I would fain do the same for his sake.’ ’Dog!’ ’What!’ ’Barest thou talk of love?—thou, who hast rolled me in thine arms, and waked from sated ecstasy to call me murderess!’ ’Had I not provocation, then? Faith, you bewilder me!’ ’Poor, stupid brute!’ ’Stupid I may be, yet not so blind as woman’s folly. Hast borne me once, Beatrice. Well, it is past: I ask nothing of it but thy trust.’ ’_My trust!_’ ’Ay, when I warn thee. This saint is not for thee. O, I am wide awake! Stupid? like enough; but when a wife, the queenliest, parts with her betrothal ring——’ She made a quick, involuntary gesture, stepping forward; then as suddenly checked herself, with a soft, mocking laugh. ’O this bull!’ she cried huskily—’this precisian of the new cult! Not for me, quotha, but for another—a saint to all but the highest bidder!’ ’Not for you nor any one,’ he said savagely. ’What! not Bona either?’ she said. ’Be warned by me, rather. Yours is no wit for this encounter. Love is a coil, dear chuck; no battering-ram. Not for me nor any? Maybe; but the game is in the strife. Go, find your saint: I know nothing of him.’ ’No, nor shall. Be warned, I say.’ ’Well, you have said it, and more than once.’ He hesitated, ground his teeth, clapped his hands together, and turning, left her. Glooming and mumbling, he went back to the palace. A page met him with the message that the Duchess of Milan desired his attendance. He frowned, and went, as directed, to her private closet. He found Bona alone, busy, or affecting to be busy, over a strip of embroidery. She greeted him chilly; but it was evident that nervousness rather than hauteur kept her seated. He saluted her coldly and silently, awaiting her pleasure. She glanced once or twice at the closed portière; then braced herself to the ordeal with a rather quivering smile. ’This is a sad coil, Messer Carlo.’ He answered gruffly:— ’If I understand your Grace.’ She put the quibble by.