The Italian wore a short red travelling skirt and a richly slashed and embroidered bodice. Her dark hair was flying. Her eyes were like coals. A thousand passions were struggling on her face. In her belt was a long knife and a pair of the very small firelocks, called pistols. Ilsa stood calmly before her in her trailing black, a perfect antithesis: it was the meeting of southern heat and of northern cold. The old abbess, utterly terrified at one horror after another, clung desperately to one arm of her niece. Andrea bolted again. Critical as our situation was, a grim sense of humor seized me as I saw Marianna staring in wonderment upon the silent nun. “Madonna,” said I, with a manner of flourish, “you have the honor to meet the most noble Lady Ilsa, soon to be Gräfin von Regenstein.” If Marianna had been a Medusa she would have frozen us with her eyes. Lightnings seemed to spring out of them. Without shame I confess to wincing, but Ilsa regarded her as calmly as a rock. Marianna’s teeth shone like those of a beautiful beast when she flung her questions at the German, wholly ignoring my presence. “So _this_ is the woman who has stolen him from me?” “I have loved him,” was Ilsa’s steadfast answer. “Madre di Jesu, you are a nun?” “Yes,” came the wholly measured reply. “And you dare to love him?” “I do.” “You, a nun, will even talk of marrying him?” “I will.” “Your vows? Pray when, gracious mistress, has His Holiness issued his dispensation from them?” “God, bearing his message through Dr. Luther, has loosed them.” “A right approved and saintly deputy! Since when has this fine assurance come?” “Not ten moments since, when Walter took me in his arms.” The word “Walter” made Marianna’s face ashen. I cannot describe her glance of fury and incarnate hate. “Prove then that you love him, you, _you_,--low, ignorant German wench, with the face of a she-goat and the modesty of an ape. You dare to set your love against mine--” But here Marianna’s German ended. She dissolved in Roman curses, lost upon Ilsa. I moved as if to end the fearful colloquy, then halted at a nod from Ilsa. Like a silver bell sounded the Harzlander’s voice in answering.