bloom; and not a little relief did I find in the penning of those
love-songs--the true expression of what was in my heart--which have
since been given to the world under the title of Le Rime di Boccadoro.
And what time I tended my mother's land by day, and wrote by night of
the feverish, despairing love that was consuming me, I waited for the
call that, sooner or later, I knew must come. What prophetic instinct
it was had rooted that certainty in my heart I do not pretend to say.
Perhaps my hope was of such a strength that it assumed the form of
certainty to solace the period of my hermitage. But that some day
Madonna Paola's messenger would arrive bringing me the Borgia ring, I
was as confident as that some day I must die.

Two years went by, and we were in the Autumn of 1502, yet my faith
knew no abating, my confidence was strong as ever. And, at last, that
confidence was justified. One night of early October, as I sat at supper
with my mother after the labours of the day, a sound of hoofs disturbed
the peace of the silent night. It drew rapidly nearer, and long before
the knock fell upon our door, I knew that it was the messenger from my
lady.

My mother looked at me across the board, an expression of alarm
overspreading her old face. "Who," her eyes seemed to ask me, "was this
horseman that rode so late?"

My hound rose from the hearth with a growl, and stood bristling, his
eyes upon the door. White-haired old Silvio, the last remaining retainer
of the House of Biancomonte, came forth from the kitchen, with inquiry
and fear blending on his wrinkled, weather-beaten countenance.

And I, seeing all these signs of alarm, yet knowing what awaited me
on the threshold, rose with a laugh, and in a bound had crossed the
intervening space. I flung wide the door, and from the gloom without a
man's voice greeted me with a question.

"Is this the house of Messer Lazzaro Biancomonte?"

"I am that Lazzaro Biancomonte," answered I. "What may your pleasure
be?"

The stranger advanced until he came within the light. He was plainly
dressed, and wore a jerkin of leather and long boots. From his air I
judged him a servant or a courier. He doffed his hat respectfully, and
held out his right hand in which something was gleaming yellow. It was
the Borgia ring.

"Pesaro," was all he said.

I took the ring and thanked him, then bade him enter and refresh himself
ere he returned, and I called old Silvio to bring wine.

"I am not