Between thumb and forefinger he balanced a sugar-crusted comfit of coriander seed steeped in marjoram vinegar, and having put his question he bore the sweet-meat to his mouth. The ladies looked at him, and from him to me. Then Madonna Paola spoke, and there seemed a reproachful wonder in her voice. “Is this indeed your choice?” she asked me. “It is the choice that was forced on me,” said I, in heat. “They left me no garment save these of folly. That I was reading this book it pleases my lord to interpret into a further sign of my intentions.” She turned to him again, and to the appeal she made was joined that of Madonna Lucrezia. He grew serious and put up his hand in a gesture of rare loftiness. “I am more clement than you think,” said he, “in having done so much. For the rest, the restoration that you ask for him is one involving political issues you little dream of. What is this?” He had turned abruptly. A servant was approaching, leading a mud-splashed courier, whom he announced as having just arrived. “Whence are you?” Giovanni questioned him. “From the Holy See,” answered the courier, bowing, “with letters for the High and Mighty Lord Giovanni Sforza, Tyrant of Pesaro, and his noble spouse, Madonna Lucrezia Borgia.” He proffered his letters as he spoke, and Giovanni, whose brow had grown overcast, took them with a hand that seemed reluctant. Then bidding the servant see to the courier’s refreshment, he dismissed them both. A moment he stood, balancing the parchments a if from their weight he would infer the gravity of their contents; and the affairs of Boccadoro were, there and then, forgotten by us all. For the thought that rose uppermost in our minds—saving always that of Madonna Lucrezia—was that these communications concerned the sheltering of Madonna Paola, and were a command for her immediate return to Rome. At last Giovanni handed his wife the letter intended for her, and, in silence, broke the seal of his own. He unfolded it with a grim smile, but scarce had he begun to read when his expression softened into one of terror, and his face grew ashen. Next it flared crimson, the veins on his brow stood out like ropes, and his eyes flashed furiously upon Madonna Lucrezia. She was reading, her bosom rising and falling in token of the excitement that possessed her. “Madonna,” he cried in an awful voice, “I have here a command from the Holy See to repair at once to Rome, to answer certain charges that are preferred against me relating to my marriage. Madonna, know you aught of this?” “I know, sir,” she answered steadily, “that I, too, have here a letter calling me to Rome. But there is no reason given for the summons.” Intuitively it flashed across my mind that whatever the matter might be, Madonna Lucrezia had full knowledge of it through the letter I had brought her from her brother. “Can you conjecture, Madonna, what are these charges to which my letter vaguely alludes?” Giovanni was inquiring.