Out he went in alarm. I was not accustomed to answer thus. I sank back to my old posture, and strove with a kind of desperation to think calmly. Then into the dark room I heard coming the rustling of gauzy silks. A tall candle sent its haunting red light over the cartooned tapestries, the high ceiling, the tall black furniture. Marianna was setting the taper on the table beside me, was leaning over my shoulder; her long white hand touched my face. “Gualtiero.” The touch, the word, came as with a supernatural influence. By a kind of unaccountable shock my head cleared: my wonted faculties returned. I sprang from the table as though her touch had been a blow. “Gualtiero,” now her questions came fast, her voice rose a little shrill, “what has happened? What was in that letter? I was told you had received one. Now you say you are unwell. Whence was the letter--from Germany?” “Yes.” My mind was working with fearful rapidity. In a twinkling I had decided it was best to tell the entire case without evasion. If I must fight, I must fight. “And from whom in Germany?” “From Dr. Luther of Wittenberg.” “The heretic friar! Santo Spirito, to have his vile paper in the palace! Where is the cursed thing?” “Behold.” I pointed with my foot at the tattered bits upon the carpet. “Holy Mother be praised! You have treated it as it deserved. But why do you look at me so fearfully?” “Do I look fearful, Madonna? The only fearful thing is that Dr. Luther has spoken the truth.” “The truth? What has he had the madness to say?” “That I have sinned against God and man in deserting Germany. That I must return at once, and play my part there in the battle.” “Good God!” It was an instant before the full force of my remark struck her. While words trembled on her tongue I attempted to break the blow by an ill-conceived playfulness. “It will have to come soon or late, Marianna, this parting of ours. The last months have been too joyous to go on forever. Better folk than we have been thrust asunder by the fates. Dante loved Beatrice only from afar. Petrarch was severed from Laura. Boccaccio said his farewell to Fiametta. I will not seek for like sorrows among the ancient worthies. Venus and Cupido have given us more of the sweet wine than they grant to most mortals; let us not cavil too loudly if at last we taste the bitter lees.” She was terribly pale now, and pressed close upon me. Her words came with her panting breath. Her gestures would have been those of one mad, save for her redeeming Italian grace. “You mean--you mean that all is ended? That we are to part forever? That you are returning to barbarous Germany? That you cast off Italy? That you cast off me? That you forsake all--_all_, at the summons of this heretic friar?” “You have said it, Madonna,” I replied very gently, stepping away from her contact. “And since when have you reached this prudent, sage, pious, honorable determination?” she called in rising accents of scorn.