“The only thing I did not know your brother has just told me—that you are to be wed before Christmas. He has ordered me to write your epithalamium.”
She drew into step beside me, and we slowly paced the alley side by side, and, as we went, withered leaves overhead, and withered leaves to make a carpet for our fret, she told me in her own way more or less what I have set down, even to her brother’s self-seeking share in the transaction that she dubbed hideous and abhorrent.
She was little changed, this winsome lady in the time that was sped. She was in her twenty-first year, but in reality she seemed to me no older than she had been on that day when first I saw her arguing with her grooms upon the road to Cagli. And from this I reassured myself that she had not been fretted overmuch by the absence of the Lord Giovanni.
Presently she spoke of him and of her plighted word which her brother and those supple gentlemen of the House of Borgia were inducing her to dishonour.
“Once before, in a case almost identical, when all seemed lost, you came—as if Heaven directed—to my rescue. This it is that gives me confidence in such aid as you might lend me now.”
“Alas! Madonna,” I sighed, “but the times are sorely changed and the situations with them. What is there now that I can do?”
“What you did then. Take me beyond their reach.”
“Ah! But whither?”
“Whither but to the Lord Giovanni? Is it not to him that my troth is plighted?”
I shook my head in sorrow, a thrust of jealousy cutting me the while.