For some five minutes Leonora satin solitude, and all seemed silence through the citadel. Then came some noise in the courtyard below--the clatter of horses feet and voices speaking; and then some steps upon the flight of stairs which led up to the grand apartments of the castle. All these sounds were so usual, however, that in themselves they could excite no emotion. But yet Leonora turned somewhat pale. There was something in the sound of the step of one of those who mounted the stairs which recalled other days to her mind. It might be heavier, firmer, less elastic, but yet it was very like Lorenzo's tread. Who ever forgets the footstep of one we have loved? Before she could consider long, Leonardo da Vinci came back to her, and seeming to have noticed nothing that went on without, took his place before her, and gazed at her again. He had nearly closed the door behind him, but not quite, and the next moment a step was heard in the adjoining hall, and some one speaking. "This is the saloon, my lord," said the voice of Antonio, opening the door of the hall. "There it stands; and a masterpiece of art it is. I will now tell the Signor Ramiro that you are here; but I will go slowly, so you will have time." The well-know step sounded across the marble pavement of the hall, at first firm and strong, then less regular, then weak and unsteady. Next came a silent pause, and Leonora could hear her heart beat in the stillness; and then a voice was raised in lamentation. "Oh, Leonora! Leonora!" it cried, "had you been but as true as you are beautiful, what misery would you have spared the heart that loved you as never woman before was loved! Had you but told me to pour out the last drop of life's blood in my veins at your feet, you had been kind, not cruel; but you have condemned me to endless tortures for having loved--nay, for loving you still too well!" Leonardo da Vinci took Leonora's hand as if he would have led her towards the door, but she snatched it from him, and covered her eyes, while her whole frame shook as if with an ague-fit. The speaker in the hall was silent; but then came once more the sound of steps upon the stairs, and Lorenzo's voice exclaimed, "Oh, God! have they given me but this short moment?" and his steps could be heard retreating towards the door. Then the voice of Ramiro d'Orco was heard saluting him in courteous terms, and the sound died away altogether. Profound silence reigned in the hall and in the little room adjoining; but at length Leonora took her hands from her eyes, and said, in a mournful and reproachful tone, "If you have done this, you have been very cruel." "I did it not," answered Leonardo; "but yet I am right glad it has happened. You accuse him of having been faithless to you, he accuses you of having been fickle to him. Both have been betrayed, my child. Both have been true, though both may be wretched."