'You paint a comic picture, dear madonna, and I must laugh. Bellarion the nameless in love with a princess! Have you discovered any other signs of madness in me?' He was too genuinely merry for deceit, she thought, and looked at him sideways under her long lashes. 'If it is not love that moves you to these dreams, what then?' His answer came very soberly, austerely, 'Whatever it may be, love it certainly is not, unless it be love of my own self. What should I know of love? What have I to do with love?' 'There speaks the monk they almost made of you. I vow you shuddered as you spoke the word. Did the fathers teach you the monkish lie that love is to be feared?' 'Of love, madonna, they taught me nothing. But instinct teaches me to endeavour not to be grotesque. I am Bellarion the nameless, born in squalor, cradled in a kennel, reared by charity ...' 'Beatific modesty. Saintly humility. Even as the dust am I, you cry, in false self-abasement that rests on pride of what you are become, of what you may yet become, pride of the fine tree grown from such mean soil. Survey yourself, Bellarion.' 'That, lady, is my constant endeavour.' 'But you bring no honesty to the task, and so your vision's warped.' 'Should I be honest if I magnified myself in my own eyes?' 'Magnified? Why, where's the need. Was Facino more than you are when he was your age? His birth could not have been less lowly, and he had not the half of your endowments, not your beauty, nor your learning, nor your address.' 'Lady, you will make me vain.' 'Then I shall advance your education. There is Ottone Buonterzo, who was Facino's brother in arms. Like you he, too, was born in the mud. But he kept his gaze on the stars. Men go whither they look, Bellarion. Raise your eyes, boy.' 'And break my nose in falling over the first obstacle in my path.' 'Did they do this? Ottone is Tyrant of Parma, a sovereign prince. Facino could be the same if his heart were big enough. Yet in other things he did not want for boldness. He married me, for instance, the only daughter of the Count of Tenda, whose rank is hardly less than that of your lady of Montferrat. But perhaps she is better endowed. Perhaps she is more beautiful than I am. Is she?' 'Lady,' said Bellarion, 'I have never seen any one more beautiful than you.' The slow solemnity of his delivery magnified and transformed the meaning of his words. A scarlet flush swept across the ivory pallor of the Countess. She veiled her eyes behind lids which were lowered until the long lashes swept her cheek; a little smile crept into the corners of her full and perfect lips. She reached out a hand, and momentarily let it rest upon his own as he rode beside her. 'That is the truth, Bellarion?' He was a little bewildered to see so much emotion evoked so lightly. It testified, he thought, to a consuming vanity. 'The truth,' he said shortly and simply.