'A miserere?' Stradella was surprised at the suggestion, for old men do not usually like dirges.
'No, sweetheart, I did not mean that! It must not be in Latin, but in Italian, an appeal from you, as a man who has committed a fault, to the Pope, as a sovereign, who has power to forgive it if he will.'
'Do you mean that I am to compose the words and the music between now and sunset?' asked the musician, somewhat startled.
'Why not? Did you not compose the greatest love song you ever wrote in a few hours, and for me? What is the use of being a man of genius, my beloved? Just for that, and nothing else!'
'But I am not a man of genius! And I have spent the night in prison!'
'You look as fresh as a May morning!' laughed Ortensia. 'Whereas I am all bedraggled, and scratched, and dishevelled, and everything I should not be.'
'I dressed while you were sleeping,' answered Stradella. 'There was plenty of time!'
'Do you mean to say that you had the inhuman cruelty not to wake me the instant you came home? And you pretend to love me! I shall never believe you again. But that only proves that you are a man of genius, as I said—you have not half a heart amongst you, you great artists! But I will have my revenge, for I shall go to my own room, and shut myself up and make myself fit to be seen, while you compose your song!'
'And who will dress your beautiful hair now that Pina has run away?' laughed Stradella.
'I will. And if I cannot, a certain man of genius, called Alessandro Stradella, may try his hand at it!'