“Your pardon, but the subject is scarcely of a nature to permit discussion in the castle courtyard. Its character is intimate.” He looked at her very searchingly, but for all that he was a man of almost twice her years, her wits were more than a match for his, and his scrutiny can have told him nothing. She preserved a calm, unruffled front. “In five minutes, Madonna,” said he, very sternly, “I shall be honoured if you will receive me in your closet.” She inclined her head, murmuring an unhesitating assent. Satisfied, he bowed to her and to Madonna Paola—who had been looking on with eyes that wonder had set wide open—and turning on his heel he strode briskly away. As he passed into the castle, Madonna Lucrezia heaved a sigh and rose. “My poor Boccadoro,” she cried, “I fear me your affairs must wait a while. But think of me always as your friend, and believe that if I can prevail upon my brother to overlook the ill-turn you did him when you entered the service of this child”—and she pointed to Madonna Paola—“I shall send for you from Rome, for in Pesaro I fear you have little to hope for. But let this be a secret between us.” From those words of hers I inferred, as perhaps she meant I should, that once she left Pesaro to obey her father’s summons, our little northern state was to know her no more. Once again, only, did I see her, on the occasion of her departure, some four days later, and then but for a moment. Back to Pesaro she came no more, as you shall learn anon; but behind her she left a sweet and fragrant memory, which still endures though many years are sped and much calumny has been heaped upon her name.