Madonna’s hands went up in a playful kind of horror. “Oh! To talk of your Regenstein, while we float here upon the beautiful river. Liefer would I fall amongst the man-eating savages the Spaniards say they are finding over seas, than spend a winter there!” “I shall not compel you, _cara mia_,” I said, ardently. “Blessed Mother! I trust not. Three years even as a boy in such a place--why were you not ruined? The boorish habits,--guzzling, gorging, and a boar hunt for interim! Doubtless not a book in the whole vast dungeon?” “Old chaplain Jakob had a small library.” “Of saints’ lives and sham miracles, or else of outworn theology. Perhaps a tract by a Hussite heretic; but no Latin poet, not to name a Greek?” “I fear not, Madonna.” “Pity on you, my poor Gualtiero! How comes it you are such a tolerable cavalier, and speak good Italian and Latin?” “You forget,” I said, smiling, “my mother was the Contessa di Palaestro. She died while I was a young boy, but her kinsfolk bred me up amidst the best afforded by Padua and Florence. Since my father’s death, five years since, I have sought Rome--and you.” She ignored this last, and pushed her interrogations. “Nevertheless, although you speak as an Italian, dress as an Italian, are as gallant and learned as many an Italian, still you prefer to be called the lord of Re-gen-stein?” “It was my father’s wish. He found favor and fortune in Italy, even an Italian title through my mother, yet his heart was ever in the north. I know it was his dear wish that I should keep the old name, and even return to the old land, and spend my days chasing the wild doe over the slopes of the Brocken.” “Will you ever return to Germany, Gualtiero?” she asked, holding down her head. “It is unlikely. Adolf, a bearish, loyal old martinet keeps the castle and forwards the rents from the peasants. You would rather visit me at Palaestro.” “Yes: in the hills above Perugia, and infinitely beautiful. We could hold a court there, as did the late Duke of Urbino. Poets, music, fêtes-of-love, theatricals, carnivals,--that would amuse us all the year long. How delightful!” And then she smiled radiantly, and I knew she was about to press a petition. “Gualtiero, I shall never be happy until I know you severed from your uncouth north forever. Sell Regenstein,--some fool will surely buy it. The Pisani bank at Venice is a safer place for your fortune; then, whether you enter the Church or not, I can think you are wholly ours.” “Impossible, Madonna; I must retain Regenstein, if only to honor my father’s desire.”