And now that, for the present, my hopes of ever seeing my own wrongs redressed and my estates returned to me were too slender to justify my remaining longer in Pesaro, I craved of the Lord Filippo permission to withdraw, telling him frankly that my tardily aroused duty called me to my widowed mother, whom for some six years I had not seen. He threw no difficulty in the way of my going; and I was free to depart. And now came the hidden pain of my leave-taking of Madonna Paola. She seemed to grieve at my departure. “Lazzaro,” she cried, when I had told her of my intention, “do you, too, desert me? And I have ever held you my best of friends.” I told her of the mother and of the duty that I owed her, whereupon she remonstrated no more, nor sought to do other than urge me to go to her. And then I spoke of Madonna’s kindness to me, and of the friendship with which she had honoured one so lowly, and in the end I swore, with my hand on my heart and my soul on my lips, that if ever she had work for me, she would not need to call me twice. “This ring, Madonna,” said I, “was given me by the Lord Cesare Borgia, and was to have proved a talisman to open wide for me the door to fortune. It did better service than that, Madonna. It was the talisman that saved you from your pursuers that day at Cagli, three years ago.” “You remind me, Lazzaro,” she cried, “of how much you have sacrificed in my service. Yours must be a very noble nature that will do so much to serve a helpless lady without any hope of guerdon.” “Nay, nay,” I answered lightly, “you must not make so much of it. It would never have sorted with my inclinations to have turned man-at-arms. This ring, Madonna, that once has served you, I beg that you will keep, for it may serve you again.” “I could not, Lazzaro! I could not!” she exclaimed, recoiling, yet without any show of deeming presumptuous my words or of being offended by them. “If you would make me the reward that you say I have earned, you will do this for me. It will make me happier, Madonna. Take it”—I thrust it into her unwilling hand—“and if ever you should need me send it back to me. That ring and the name of the place where you abide by the lips of the messenger you choose, and with a glad heart, as fast as horse can bear me, shall I ride to serve you once again.” “In such a spirit, yes,” said she. “I take it willingly, to treasure it as a buckler against danger, since by means of it I can bring you to my aid in time of peril.” “Madonna, do not overestimate my powers,” I besought her. “I would have you see in me no more than I am. But it sometimes happens that the mouse may aid the lion.” “And when I need the lion to aid the mouse, my good Lazzaro, I will send for you.” There were tears in her voice, and her eyes were very bright. “Addio, Lazzaro,” she murmured brokenly. “May God and His saints protect you. I will pray for you, and I shall hope to see you again some day, my friend.”