“It has all seemed a beautiful tale, a Platonic myth, this forgiveness of enemies. Yet, yet--” his words came in faint whispers, “if you and you can forgive, perchance God can do even likewise. It is all very strange. Tell Marianna so, and tell Leo de’ Medici we at Rome were wrong--” No more. The blood rushed from his lips. His head fell back with the death pallor spreading on his face. “_Requiescat in pace_,” spoke Luther solemnly. “The mercy of the Lord is from everlasting unto everlasting.” Ilsa rose from the ground, while her brother cast a cloak over the form of him who had been a Prince of the Roman Church, the keenest critic of art and poetry in all the Eternal City, skilled in diplomacy, wise in counsel, the first pupil of Alexander Borgia. “Who is this lady, so strangely dressed?” asked Luther, setting his gaze on Ilsa, and for the first time I knew that he had never met her. “Dear Doctor,” I said, “this is the Gräfin Ilsa von Blankenburg, full soon to be my wife.” Ilsa colored scarlet for the first time, at thought of her manly dress, but little enough recked Luther. With a great stride he went up to her, with never a “by-your-leave” he held her glowing face close to his and kissed her forehead. “Dearest daughter,” he said, “I have remembered you in my prayers now morning and night these many months, ever since Walter brought me his burden touching you. I am taught again that God is stronger than the devil.” He released Ilsa, and for a moment she tried to follow as we turned back to the horses; but in a moment I saw her color all fade to snow and like a crushed lily she was falling when I caught her in my arms. We laid her on the grass, and for a little I feared she was even as Forli; though brook water splashed on her face made her eyes open, and my first terrors end, her state, was very plain,--battling for life the day before, in the saddle all night save two hours rest on a strawrick, and now the dread scenes of this morning,--even we strong men knew we would be unstrung and lame for many a day. With my own arms I carried her, despite my limping thigh, to my horse and bore her before me in the saddle. Adolf protested he was stronger and far less wearied than I, but with such a burden, I could have played the Titan. We laid the body of Forli across one of the captured horses, rough graves had been digged for the slain, the prisoners were duly strapped to our varlets’ saddle bows; a smart run we would give them ere they were lodged in some fit dungeon. “Will not Forli be traced, and you be called in question?” asked Luther as we moved away. “He has gone to France in the interests of peace,” I replied sagely; “it will be a long time before our friends at Rome pry too carefully into the precise place and circumstances of his vanishing. It would shatter too great a wasp’s nest. Doubtless we will hear that he died of disease in some obscure inn on the Paris road.”