"Your grace," said the earl, rising, "I appreciate fully the absurdity of my errand and the kindness of your forbearance. I fear, however, that you scarcely grasp the situation. I am going to marry Lady Nora. I cannot marry her without the cup. You perceive the conclusion—I shall have the cup. Good-by, your grace; I thank you for your patience."
"Good-by," said the cardinal, ringing for a servant. "I wish that I might serve you; but, when children cry for the moon, what is to be done? Come and see me again; I am nearly always at home about this hour."
"I repeat, your grace," said the earl, "that I shall have the cup. All is fair in love and war, is it not?"
There was a certain quality in the earl's voice—that quiet, even note of sincerity which quells riots, which quiets horses, which leads forlorn hopes, and the well-trained ear of the cardinal recognized it.
"Pietro," he said to the servant who answered the bell, "I am going out.
My hat and stick. I will go a little way with you, my lord."
They went down the broad stairs together, and the earl noticed, for the first time, that his companion limped.
"Gout?" he asked.
"No," said the cardinal; "the indiscretion of youth. I was with
Garibaldi and caught a bullet."
"Take my arm," said the earl.
"Willingly," said the cardinal, "since I know that you will bring me into the presence of a woman worth seeing; a woman who can compel a peer of England to meditate a theft."