The child carefully undid the folds of his scarf, and taking from thence a small note, presented it with a graceful obeisance to Buondlemonte. “Your answer, noble sir,” he said. “I am directed to bear it.” Buondlemonte took the billet, and, after excusing himself to his companions, stepped aside and cut the silken thread that bound it. The note must have contained something more than ordinary, for as the young man glanced his eyes over it, the red blood mounted to his cheeks and his forehead. “Whom dost thou serve, my pretty youth?” Jacopa Amedi asked, as Buondlemonte perused and reperused the paper. “To answer your question, signor,” the boy replied with a sly smile, as he bowed with deference to the noble, “would be to prove that I am unworthy to serve any one.” “And to quicken thy speech,” Amedi’s cousin remarked, in a tone half jesting half earnest, “it would be well to apply a leathern strap to thy shoulders.” “Fie, Baptista Amedi, fie!” Guiseppo said, as he observed the child’s eyes flash with indignation; “conceive no foul thoughts toward the boy; he merits thy praise for being faithful to his mistress, whoever she may be.” By this time Buondlemonte had concluded his perusal of the note, and turning to the boy, he said, as he handed him a piece of money, “I will, in person, bear an answer to your missive.” The page bowed, and donning his plumed cap, was soon lost to observation among the passengers in the street. It was in vain that Guiseppo jested and Jacopa Amedi looked grave and inquisitive; Buondlemonte was uncommunicative, and would make no revelations in relation to the page’s mission. “By my faith, thou art a lucky knight, Buondlemonte!” Guiseppo said. “Not yet a day in Florence, and thou hast an assignation, I warrant me, with some mysterious being.” They had now arrived at the corner of a street that crossed the one in which they were. Jacopa Amedi paused and pointed to a splendid mansion. “You know our palace,” he said; “shall we thither?” “Not now, Amedi,” Buondlemonte replied; “I have a commission for a friend to execute before I can gratify my own wishes. In an hour I’ll wait upon you at the palace; in the meantime present my duty to your fair sister, and say that ere long I will offer it with my own lips.” The young men separated; Amedi and his relatives turning their steps toward the palace of the former, while Buondlemonte and Guiseppo continued their walk alone. CHAPTER II. “Buondlemonte, thou art no happy bridegroom,” Guiseppo said, after they had proceeded for some time in silence. Buondlemonte sighed, but made no reply. “Thou dost not love Amedi’s sister,” Guiseppo observed, in a half interrogative tone. “’Twas a compact between parents, and not a union of lovers that was intended,” Buondlemonte replied bitterly. “Still thou dost not love her—this marriage promises thee no happiness.” Buondlemonte paused a moment, and then said,