“_Ecco!_” she cried in her sweetest mockery. “Since the Conte di Palaestro grew a German beard and put on German clothes he has either lost the use of his tongue, or forgotten how to understand my Tuscan! Do you not hear me? Am I not plain? I go back to Italy: and where go you?” Her hands flew out in those gestures that double the eloquence of her race. “A thousand pardons, Madonna,” I began awkwardly; “I had not expected this so soon. I had expected your father would stay longer. I had not arranged--” “You had not arranged? You had not arranged? O Santo Spirito, you had not intended to go back to Italy the moment the year required by His Holiness had expired? Have you turned mad, Gualtiero?” I dared not look her in the face. She knew her power over me, and used it pitilessly. “You do not answer? You do not say ‘The year expires. I am away with you to Milan, Padua, Venice, Palaestro, instantly?’ Am I in turn of flesh and blood and expected to endure this, when you have promised--” I knew she was deliberately creating her passion, but that did not make it easier to evade her. Vainly I raised a deprecating hand. “What have I promised, Madonna?” “Mater Dolorosa! Have you the perfidy to forget how, when you quitted Rome, you vowed to receive me at the end of the year at Palaestro? And _thus_ must I rate all your lip service, all your pretty speeches and courtly attention since you came to Mainz. O Gualtiero--” Tears, sobbing, white hands pressed to her streaming eyes, ended the entreaty. When I approached with some effort to comfort her I was repulsed angrily. “None of your caresses, Eccellenza! I am but a poor cardinal’s daughter, but I am southern born: better death than to endure ingratitude and faithlessness. If you hesitate to return to Italy, at least declare your reasons. Honor demands that!” “I cannot well express them, and yet I would stay a season or so longer in Germany.” “Cannot express them?” her eyes were now flashing daggers. “O miracle,--the Conte di Palaestro and his nimble tongue at a loss. Here, then. Answer as I suggest them. You fear the vengeance of the Archbishop of Bari?” “Folly. He at least knows I am not the man to seek after.” “Your castle--your noble and elegant Palazzo di Regenstein needs your amiable watch-care over its garrison of wolf-hounds?” “Not so.” I rejoined abruptly. “Ah,” spoke she archly; “I think you have spoken of a lady in a neighboring bandit’s warren; no doubt beautiful, nobly born, learned--the Contessa di Blankenburg.” “I would not tarry for her,” I replied, though I felt my forehead glow guiltily. “You find this charming German climate, with its thaws, and snows, and winter, more delectable than the breezes from Soracte and the Apennines?” “Marianna,” spoke I, turning at bay at last, “do not chatter foolishness. Those are none of my reasons.” “Then,” said she, looking me straight in the face, “the Wittenberg friar has bewitched you. You would stay for his sake.”