“Poor grandmamma!” said Giulietta, mimicking the sad tone in which Agnes spoke,—“to be sure I have. I left her making a hearty breakfast. So fall to, and do the same,—for you don’t know who may come to see you this morning.”
“Giulietta, is he here?”
“He!” said Giulietta, laughing. “Do hear the little bird! It begins to chirp already! No, he is not here yet; but Pietro says he will come soon, and Pietro knows all his movements.”
“Pietro is your husband?” said Agnes, inquiringly.
“Yes, to be sure,—and a pretty good one, too, as men go,” said Giulietta. “They are sorry bargains, the best of them. But you’ll get a prize, if you play your cards well. Do you know that the King of Naples and the King of France have both sent messages to our captain? Our men hold all the passes between Rome and Naples, and so every one sees the sense of gaining our captain’s favor. But eat your breakfast, little one, while I go and see to Pietro and the men.”
So saying, she bustled out of the room, locking the door behind her.
Agnes took a little bread and water,—resolved to fast and pray, as the only defence against the danger in which she stood.
After breakfasting, she retired into the inner room, and, opening the window, sat down and looked out on the prospect, and then, in a low voice, began singing a hymn of Savonarola’s, which had been taught her by her uncle. It was entitled “Christ’s Call to the Soul.” The words were conceived in that tender spirit of mystical devotion which characterizes all this class of productions.
“Fair soul, created in the primal hour,
Once pure and grand,