Poor Gerard. He began to wade in deep waters when he encountered this Italian princess; callida et calida selis filia. He resolved to go no more when once he had finished her likeness. Indeed he now regretted having undertaken so long and laborious a task.
This resolution was shaken for a moment by his next reception, which was all gentleness and kindness.
After standing to him some time in her toga, she said she was fatigued, and wanted his assistance in another way: would he teach her to draw a little? He sat down beside her, and taught her to make easy lines. He found her wonderfully apt. He said so.
“I had a teacher before thee, Gerar-do. Ay, and one as handsome as thyself.” She then went to a drawer, and brought out several heads drawn with a complete ignorance of the art, but with great patience and natural talent. They were all heads of Gerard, and full of spirit; and really not unlike. One was his very image. “There,” said she. “Now thou seest who was my teacher.”
“Not I, signora.”
“What, know you not who teaches us women to do all things? 'Tis love, Gerar-do. Love made me draw because thou draweth, Gerar-do. Love prints thine image in my bosom. My fingers touch the pen, and love supplies the want of art, and lo thy beloved features lie upon the paper.”
Gerard opened his eyes with astonishment at this return to an interdicted topic. “Oh, Signora, you promised me to be friends and nothing more.”
She laughed in his face. “How simple you are: who believes a woman promising nonsense, impossibilities? Friendship, foolish boy, who ever built that temple on red ashes? Nay Gerardo,” she added gloomily, “between thee and me it must be love or hate.”
“Which you will, signora,” said Gerard firmly. “But for me I will neither love nor hate you; but with your permission I will leave you.” And he rose abruptly.
She rose too, pale as death, and said, “Ere thou leavest me so, know thy fate; outside that door are armed men who wait to slay thee at a word from me.”