“That may not be,” said I. “It were not seemly, unless the Lord Giovanni were here himself to take you hence.”
“Then I will write to the Lord Giovanni,” she cried. “I will write, and you shall bear my letter.”
“What think you will the Lord Giovanni do?” I burst out, with a scorn that must have puzzled her. “Think you his safety does not give him care enough in the hiding-place to which he has crept, that he should draw upon himself the vengeance of the Borgias?”
She stared at me in ineffable surprise. “But the Lord Giovanni is brave and valiant,” she cried, and down in my heart I laughed in bitter mockery.
“Do you love the Lord Giovanni, Madonna?” I asked bluntly.
My question seemed to awaken fresh astonishment. It may well be that it awakened, too, reflection. She was silent for a little space. Then—
“I honour and respect him for a noble, chivalrous and gifted gentleman,” she answered me, and her answer made me singularly content, spreading a balm upon the wounds my soul had taken. But to her fresh intercessions that I should carry a letter to him, I shook my head again. My mood was stubborn.
“Believe me, Madonna, it were not only unwise, but futile.”
She protested.
“I swear it would be,” I insisted, with a convincing force that left her staring at me and wondering whence I derived so much assurance. “We must wait. From now till Christmas we have more than two months. In two months much may befall. As a last resource we may consider communication with the Lord Giovanni. But it is a forlorn hope, Madonna, and so we will leave it until all else has failed us.”