This dialogue, which had been begun in the open air, was now being carried on in the Duchess's parlour. She sat in a high-backed, richly carved chair, looking out through the balconied window, on the bay of Naples, with streaks of summer lightning now and then illumining the sky, and the lurid fires of Vesuvius glowing in the distance. Valdés sat on a stool a little apart.
"Since you wish me," said she, after a pause, "to make the love of God my prime motive, and, next to it, the love of my neighbour,—well then, I will do so!—but mention, if it please you, some rule by which I may know and understand what it is I ought to do; because I wish to give myself up to the love of God, even so much so as to deprive myself of your favour, and that of a hundred others like you."
"No, Signora, no! you can never do that!" said Valdés, fervently: and he then sketched out for her the outline of a Christian life, not circumscribed within slavish bounds, but capable of adaptation to time and place, sex and degree, based only on the immutable principle of loving God above and in all things, and one's neighbour even as one's self. It was a memorable evening for Giulia. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but they were the sweetest she had ever shed. They took no note of time, but prolonged the interview till night.
When they parted, she said to him:
"I shall never forget this conversation!"
"And I," said he, deeply moved, "shall remember it always."
"Oh, that I could preserve every word you have spoken! Do you think you could commit the substance to writing?"
"Undoubtedly, if you wish it."
"I do wish it, most earnestly. And pray for me, pray for me, dear friend, that your words may not only sink into my heart, but take root in it, and bring forth fruit abundantly."