It was a strange meeting between these two girls--for both were yet girls--neither twenty years of age. They both gazed upon each other with curious, scrutinizing eyes; but their feelings were very different. Eloise de Chaumont marvelled at Leonora's wonderful beauty--at the profusion of her jetty hair--at the softened lustre of her large, full, shaded eyes--at the delicate carving of the ever varying features--at the undulating grace, flowing, with every movement of her rounded, symmetrical limbs, into some new form of loveliness. She thought, "Well, she is beautiful, indeed! No wonder Lorenzo loved her. But, on my faith, she does not appear one to treat any man cruelly. I should rather think she would yield at love's first summons." Leonora, on the other hand, though she was calm and perfectly composed, felt matter for pain in the gaze which Eloise fixed upon her. She could plainly see that Lorenzo's wife knew of the love which had once existed between him and herself. "Perhaps he himself had told her of it--and how had he told it? Had he boasted that he had won her heart and then cast her off? She would not believe it. Notwithstanding all, she believed him to be noble still. He might be fickle; but Lorenzo could not be base. Oh yes, fickle he was even to Eloise," she thought. "From every report which had reached her, he had soon wearied of her who had supplanted the first love of his heart." A certain wavering look of grief, which came from time to time into the countenance of Eloise, showed that she too was somehow disappointed, and a strange, unnatural bond of sympathy seemed to establish itself between two hearts the most opposite in feelings and in principles, the least likely, from circumstances, to be linked together. They passed nearly an hour together; and Eloise promised on the following day to come and partake of a banquet at the villa on the hill. She had a sort of caressing way with her which was very winning; and when Leonora told her she must go, for that Leonardo, the great painter, waited her at home, she took the once promised bride of her husband in her arms, and held her there for a moment, kissing her cheek tenderly. "You are very beautiful," she whispered; "well may the painter take you for his model!" Leonora blushed and disengaged herself; and, though she was still calm as a statue externally, many an hour passed before her heart recovered from the agitation of that interview. She was destined to feel more emotion, too, that day. Leonardo de Vinci waited her as she expected, and at once proceeded to his work. While Ramiro d'Orco remained, the painter was nearly silent; but as soon as the baron was gone, he began to speak; and his speech was cruel upon poor Leonora. He asked her many questions regarding her late meeting with Lorenzo's wife, made her describe Eloise, and commented as she spoke.