Late in the afternoon I roused myself from my reverie. I had now chosen my path. I knew that no argument or consideration could swerve me from it. The consciousness that I had made the decision raised my spirits. In some measure at least I could divine the future. I asked the honor of waiting upon Forli and Marianna, and when I met them craved their pardon for my brusque behavior, explaining it, as well I might, on the ground of all I had recently undergone. They pressed me for my decision. I told them my first answer was for the Emperor, and they were fain to wait, but their gleaming eyes and cheerful gestures indicated that they regarded all omens as favorable. “Ah! Gualtiero, we know that at your best, you can match the wits of Caesare Borgia,” said the Cardinal, and then proceeded to tell with gusto how the foreign noblemen surrounding the Emperor had arranged an impromptu ball that evening, and that I was very welcome to attend if only I would appear in domino--as would indeed many of the guests. I consented, with an alacrity which no doubt heightened their expectations. So for one evening I seemed almost recalled again to the Southland. A masker’s dress was provided, sufficiently resplendent in gold lace and Flanders point to satisfy a Venetian magnifico. One of Forli’s clever valets completed my toilet with a skill worthy of Andrea. When I drew my domino over my eyes, and stepped out into the corridors already full of silk trains and scarlet bravery, instinctively I felt the senses quicken, the blood rise. For the moment I was living even as I had lived before I heard the dread name--Luther. A great hall of the castle had been used for the fête. A thousand candles swung from their hanging sconces. Fresh leaves and spring flowers hid the barren walls behind. From a bower of laurel sounded music, harps, and tender viols, and the music was not the stately rhythms of the north, but the pulsating, stuccato melodies of Italy or Spain. Under the lights moved all the high dames and dignitaries of Castile, Aragon and Naples who had followed the court of the Emperor; Spaniards with their stately grace, Italians whose vivacious talk was as much with their hands as with their tongues. From under the masks I saw dark eyes that had learned to flash languorously in the orange-groves of Seville or Palermo. On an easy divan by one entrance lounged Forli, smiling benignantly from his red cap and robe upon us all, yet lamenting that years and churchly dignity forbade him to join in the revelry. In and out of the thronging dancers went a woman in a lustrous yellow dress, its color made vivid by its trimming of black. The closeness of the fit and the low cut neck displayed her figure rarely. Despite her mask I knew that half the company identified her. “Oh, marvellous creature,” raved a Sicilian beside me, “the form of Venus, and the mouth of Juno! Who is she?”