“Nay,” said I, and I looked at Luisina, who stood there so pale and tearful. “I think that for her own sake, poor maid, it were better that she went, since you desire it. But she shall not be whipped hence like a stray dog.”
“Come, child,” I said to her, as gently as I could. “Go pack, and quit this home of misery. And be easy. For if any man in Mondolfo attempts to hasten your going, he shall reckon with me.”
I laid a hand for an instant in kindliness and friendliness upon her shoulder. “Poor little Luisina,” said I, sighing. But she shrank and trembled under my touch. “Pity me a little, for they will not permit me any friends, and who is friendless is indeed pitiful.”
And then, whether the phrase touched her, so that her simple little nature was roused and she shook off what self-control she had ever learnt, or whether she felt secure enough in my protection to dare proclaim her mind before them all, she caught my hand, and, stooping, kissed it.
“O Madonnino!” she faltered, and her tears showered upon that hand of mine. “God reward you your sweet thought for me. I shall pray for you, Madonnino.”
“Do, Luisina,” said I. “I begin to think I need it.”
“Indeed, indeed!” said my mother very sombrely. And as she spoke, Luisina, as if her fears were reawakened, turned suddenly and went quickly along the terrace, past Rinolfo, who in that moment smiled viciously, and round the angle of the wall.
“What... what are my orders, Madonna?” quoth the wretched seneschal, reminding her that all had not yet been resolved.
She lowered her eyes to the ground, and folded her hands. She was by now quite composed again, her habitual sorrowful self.
“Let be,” she said. “Let the wench depart. So that she goes we may count ourselves fortunate.”