“Nay, there speaks your cynicism,” she chided me. “But even if my ideals be too lofty, would you have me descend from the height of such a pinnacle to the level of the Lord Giovanni—a weak-spirited craven, as witnesses the manner in which he permitted the Borgias to mishandle him; a cruel and unjust tyrant, as witnesses his dealing with you, to seek no further instances; a weak, ignorant, pleasure-loving fool, devoid of wit and barren of ambition? Such is the man they would have me wed. Do not tell me, Lazzaro, that it were difficult to find a better one than this.” “I do not mean to tell you that. After all, though it be my trade to jest, it is not my way to deal in falsehood. I think, Madonna, that if we were to have you write for us such an appreciation of the High and Mighty Giovanni Sforza, you would leave a very faithful portrait for the enlightenment of posterity.” “Lazzaro, do not jest!” she cried. “It is your help I need. That is the reason why I am come to you with the tale of what they seek to force me into doing.” “To force you?” I cried. “Would they dare so much?” “Aye, if I resist them further.” “Why, then,” I answered, with a ready laugh, “do not resist them further.” “Lazzaro!” she cried, her accents telling of a spirit wounded by what she accounted a flippancy. “Mistake me not,” I hastened to elucidate. “It is lest they should employ force and compel you at once to enter into this union that I counsel you to offer no resistance. Beg for a little time, vaguely suggesting that you are not indisposed to the Lord Giovanni’s suit.” “That were deceit,” she protested. “A trusty weapon with which to combat tyranny,” said I. “Well? And then?” she questioned. “Such a state of things cannot endure for ever. It must end some day.” I shook my head, and I smiled down upon her a smile that was very full of confidence. “That day will never dawn, unless the Lord Giovanni’s impatience transcends all bounds.” She looked at me, a puzzled glance in her eyes, a bewildered expression knitting her fine brows. “I do not take your meaning, my friend,” she complained. “Then mark the enucleation. I will expound this meaning of mine through the medium of a parable. In Babylon of old, there dwelt a king whose name was Belshazzar, who, having fallen into habits of voluptuousness and luxury, was so enslaved by them as to feast and make merry whilst a certain Darius, King of the Medes, was marching in arms against his capital. At a feast one night the fingers of a man’s hand were seen to write upon the wall, and the words they wrote were a belated warning: ‘Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.’” She looked at me, her eyes round with inquiry, and a faint smile of uncertainty on her lips. “Let me confess that your elucidation helps me but little.” “Ponder it, Madonna,” I urged her. “Substitute Giovanni Sforza for Belshazzar, Cesare Borgia for King Darius, and you have the key to my parable.”