Years ago it was; and years how full of many things! Yet the richness of those moments in the Vatican gardens lingers with me still. And if you could have seen her then, with the gold of that Latin sunlight pouring itself over her, you would not have wondered that all Rome called me as lucky in my love as in my fortune. For Marianna’s beauty was the hot dark beauty of the south,--of Trojan Helen, of Aspasia, or more likely of Poppaea Sabina, enchantress of Nero. Angel she was not. Pinturicchio’s and Perugino’s seraphs had never such raven hair, nor that full bare neck, nor the black eyes, the cheeks of cream and rose color tinted by the Neapolitan sun: also their glances were mild and dove-like, not lit by Queen Juno’s wit and fire. Still do I see her, as she walked with me; the springtime sun glowing on her face and forehead, on her long arms, on the Arabian pearls upon her hair, the Egyptian turquoise at her throat, and the full satin sheen of her scarlet dress and golden girdle; while all the time her hands flew in those quick Italian gestures, accenting the music of her voice. Verily, were not the Vatican gardens even as the gardens of the Hesperides to me that hour? And would I then have accepted heaven had an archangel offered it? But at last we were ready to talk of many matters, and plainly Marianna had somewhat to ask. “So, Gualtiero, you have seen my father?” “I have just left his chambers.” “And who was there?” “Why, Rocca--a little criticism of some of Sanazarro’s verses--” Marianna shook her head charmingly. “Manifestly, Gualtiero, your wits were made in the north. Did my father and Rocca meet solely to weigh Latin metres?” “I do not understand, _cara mia_.” “The Conte (she called me thus to make me vexed) is disingenuous. I will refresh his memory. He was asked if he did not wish to enter the Church?” “I was.” It displeased me Forli had revealed matters to his daughter. I always discussed with Marianna at disadvantage. “And of course you consented?” “How fast that green lizard runs across the path,” I observed, trying to change the subject. “Not more fast than a thousand others. Tell me,--are you to be Archbishop of Bari?” “When I found precisely what their Eminences had to propose,” I replied constrainedly, “I was obliged to decline my share in the project.” “Excellent!” she clapped her hands prettily. “I have won my wager with Rocca! His best white palfrey against my Moorish boy.” “Your wager with Rocca?”