'Of what thinkest thou?'
'My lord,' she answered, 'I am thinking about peaches.'
'Ay; I have bidden the gardener send thee of the ripest.'
'I care not for them. My thought was of the peaches of Messer Leonardo. Hast thou heard aught of those?'
'What should I have heard?'
'That they be poisoned.'
'How poisoned?'
''Tis true. He hath poisoned them himself, by magic, for his experiments. Monna Sidonia told me; wonderfully beautiful peaches!'
And again they were silent, embracing thus in the stillness and the dark; their thoughts united, each listening to the quickened beat of the other's heart—no further speech needed. At last Il Moro, with almost paternal tenderness, kissed his young wife on the brow, and made the sign of the cross.
'Sleep, dear one,' he said, 'sleep in peace.'