She leant even nearer to him; her whitened chin, circled by the stiff goldwork of her collar, touched his shoulder. “Tell me I am beautiful,” she said. “I must hear that once more–from young lips.” “You are beautiful, Madonna.” She moved back and her eyes flared. “Did I not say I would not have your flatteries?” “What, then, was your meaning?” “Ten years ago you would not have asked; no man would have asked. I am old. Lucrezia old!–ah, Gods above!” “You are beautiful,” he repeated. “But how should I dare to touch you with my mouth?” “You would have dared, if you had thought me desirable,” she answered hoarsely. “You cannot guess how beautiful I was–before you were born, Orsini.” He felt a sudden pity for her; the glamour of her fame clung round her and gilded her. Was not this a woman who had been the fairest in Italy seated beside him? He raised her hand and kissed the palm, the only part that was not hidden with jewels. “You are sorry for me,” she said. Orsini started at her quick reading of his thoughts. “I am the last of my family,” she added. “And sick. Did you know that I was sick, Orsini?” “Nay, Madonna.” “For weeks I have been sick. And wearying for Rome.” “Rome,” he ventured, “is different now, Madonna.” “Ahè!” she wailed. “And I am different also.” Her hand lay on his knee; he looked at it and wondered if the things he had heard of her were true. She had been the beloved child of her father, the old Pope, rotten with bitter wickedness; she had been the friend of her brother, the dreadful Cesare–her other brother, Francesco, and her second husband–was it not supposed that she knew how both had died? But for twenty-one years she had lived in Ferrara, patroness of poet and painter, companion of such as the courteous gentle Venetian, Pietro Bembo. And Alfonso d’Este, her husband, had found no fault with her; as far as the world could see, there had been no fault to find. Ormfredo Orsini stared at the hand sparkling on his knee and wondered. “Suppose that I was to make you my father confessor?” she said. The white mantle had fallen apart and the bosom of her gown glittered, even in the twilight. “What sins have you to confess, Madonna?” he questioned. She peered at him sideways. “A Pope’s daughter should not be afraid of the Judgment of God,” she answered. “And I am not. I shall relate my sins at the bar of Heaven and say I have repented–Ahè–if I was young again!” “Your Highness has enjoyed the world,” said Orsini. “Yea, the sun,” she replied, “but not the twilight.” “The twilight?” “It has been twilight now for many years,” she said, “ever since I came to Ferrara.” The moon was rising behind the cypress trees, a slip of glowing light. Lucrezia took her chin in her hand and stared before her; a soft breeze stirred the tall reeds in the pool behind her and gently ruffled the surface of the water.