“Neither forgive nor forget will I,” came her voice, charged with an ineffable sweetness, and her hands descended on my bowed bead, as if she would bless and soothe me. “I am conscious of no offence that craves forgiveness, and what you have said I would not forget if I could. Whence springs this fear of yours, dear Lazzaro? Am I more than woman, or you less than man that you should tremble for the confession that in a wild moment I have dragged from you? For that wild moment I shall be thankful to my life’s end; for your words have been the sweetest ever my poor ears listened to. Once I thought that I loved the Lord Giovanni Sforza. But it was you I loved; for the deeds that earned him my affection were deeds of yours and not of his. Once I told you so in scorn. Yet since then I have come soberly to ponder it. I account you, Lazzaro, the noblest friend, the bravest gentleman and the truest lover that the world has known. Need it surprise you, then, that I love you and that mine would be a happy life if I might spend it in growing worthy of this noble love of yours?” There was a knot in my throat and tears in my eyes—a matter at which I take no shame. Air seemed to fail me for a moment, and I almost thought that I should swoon, so overcome was I. Transport the blackest soul from among the damned of Hell, wash it white of its sins and seat it on one of the glorious thrones of Heaven, then ponder its emotions, and you may learn something of what I felt. At last, when I had mastered the exquisite torture of my joy— “Madonna mia,” I cried, “bethink you of what you say. You are the noble lady of Santafior, and I—” “No more of this,” she interrupted me. “You are Lazzaro Biancomonte, of patrician birth, no matter to what odd shifts a cruel fortune may have driven you. Will you take me?” She had my face between her palms, and she forced my glance to meet her own saintly eyes. “Will you take me, Lazaro?” she repeated. “Holy Flower of the Quince!” was all that I could murmur, whereat she gently smiled. “Santo Fior di Cotogno!” And then a great sadness overwhelmed me. A tide that neaped the frail bark of happiness high and dry upon the shores of black despair. “To-morrow Madonna, comes the Lord Ignacio Borgia,” I groaned. “I know, I know,” said she. “But I have thought of that. Paula Sforza di Santafior is dead. Requiescat! We must dispose that they will let her rest in peace.” CHAPTER XV. AN ILL ENCOUNTER Speechless I stared at her a moment, so taken was I with the immensity of the thing that she suggested. Fear, amazement, and joy jostled one another for the possession of my mind. “Why do you look so, Lazzaro?” she exclaimed at last. “What is it daunts you? “How is the thing possible?” quoth I. “What difficulty does it present?” she questioned back. “The Governor of Cesena has rendered very possible what I propose. We may look on him to-morrow as our best friend.” “But Ramiro knows,” I reminded her.