“My lord,” I cried, “let me explain. I love Madonna Paola. It was love of her that led me to the church and kept me there that night. It was love of her and the overmastering passion of my grief at her so sudden death that led me, in a madness, to desire once more to look upon her face ere they delivered it to earth’s keeping. Thus was it that I came to discover that she lived; thus was it that I anticipated Ramiro del’ Orca. He came upon us almost before I had raised her from the coffin, yet love lent me strength and craft to delude him. We hid awhile in the sacristy, and it was there, after Madonna had revived, that the pent-up passion of years burst the bond with which reason had bidden me restrain it.” “By the Host!” cried Cesare, his brows drawn down in a frown. “You are a bold man to tell me this. And you, Madonna,” he cried, turning suddenly to her, “what have you to say?” “Only, my lord, that I have suffered more I think in these past few days than has ever fallen to the life-time’s share of another woman. I think, my lord, that I have suffered enough to have earned me a little peace and a little happiness for the remainder of my days. All my life have men plagued me with marriages that were hateful to me, and this has culminated in the brutal act of Ramiro del’ Orca. Do you not think that I have endured enough?” He stared at her for a moment. “Then you love this fellow?” he gasped. “You, Madonna Paola Sforza di Santafior, one of the noblest ladies in all Italy, confess to love this lordling of a few barren acres?” “I loved him, Illustrious, when he was less, much less, than that. I loved him when he was little better than the Fool of the Court of Pesaro, and not even the shame of the motley that disgraced him could stay the impulse of my affections.” He laughed curiously. “By my faith,” said he, “I have gone through life complaining of the want of frankness in the men and women I have met. But you two seem to deal in it liberally enough to satisfy the most ardent seeker after truth. I would that Pontius Pilate could have known you.” Then he grew sterner. “But what account of this evening’s adventure am I to bear to my cousin Ignacio?” She hung her head in silence, whilst my own spirit trembled. Then suddenly I spoke. “My lord,” said I, “if you take her back to Pesaro, you may keep the deed of Biancomonte. For unless Madonna Paola goes thither with me, your gift is a barren one, your reward of no account or value to me.” “I would not have it so,” said he, his head on one side and his fingers toying with his auburn beard. “You saved my life, and you must be rewarded fittingly.” “Then, Illustrious, in payment for my preservation of your life, do you render happy mine, and we shall thus be quits.” “My lord,” cried Paola, putting forth her hands in supplication, “if you have ever loved, befriend us now.”