'Of a truth, dear one; it is still as it was in our first days——'
'Foolishness!' cried Beatrice laughing; 'Fie on this trifling. Rather should'st thou be thinking of deeper matters. It seems as though his health were mending.'
'Nay, 'tis but few days since Luigi Marliani assured me there was no hope for him,' replied the duke; ''tis true we have now a little amendment, but it will not be for long; he is doomed beyond remission.'
'Who can tell?' urged Beatrice; 'he is over-tended. Of a truth, Ludovico, I marvel at your patience. You bear insults like a sheep. You say "The power is in our hands," but were it not better to renounce power at once than to tremble for it night and day like thieves; to lick the dust before that haughty bastard who is the King of France; to be slaves at the mercy of the impudent Alfonso; to weary ourselves in propitiating that perfidious sorceress of Aragon! They say she is pregnant again: a new serpent will come forth from that cursed nest. And to fare thus for our whole lives! Consider, Ludovico, for our whole lives! And you call that having the power in our own hands!'
'But the physicians constantly aver,' repeated the duke, 'that this malady is incurable; sooner or later——'
'Ay, 'tis later then. For ten years he hath been dying.'
There was a silence. Suddenly she threw her beautiful arm round his neck, and drawing herself to him, she whispered in his ear—words which made him shudder.
'Bice! may Christ and His most holy Mother pardon thee! Never—dost heed me?—never again speak to me of that.'
'You are afraid, perhaps? Would you wish me to try?'
He did not answer, but asked presently:—