ds, and paid more heed to the Governor
of Cesena's presence at Pesaro than he did to mine. It may be that he
imagined Ramiro del' Orca to be acting under Cesare's instructions.

That Sunday night we supped together, and we were all tolerably gay, the
topic of our talk being the coming of the bridegroom. Madonna's was the
only downcast face at the board. She was pale and worn, and there were
dark circles round her eyes that did much to mar the beauty of her angel
face, and inspired me with a deep and sorrowing pity.

Ramiro announced his intention of leaving Pesaro on the morrow, and ere
he went he begged leave to pledge the beautiful Lady of Santafior,
who was so soon to become the bride of the valiant and mighty Ignacio
Borgia. It was a toast that was eagerly received, so eager and
uproariously that even that poor lady herself was forced to smile,
for all that I saw it in her eyes that her heart was on the point of
breaking.

I remember how, when we had drunk, she raised her goblet--a beautiful
chaste cup of solid gold--and drank, herself, in acknowledgment; and I
remember, too, how, chancing to move my head, I caught a most singular,
ill-omened smile upon the coarse lips of Messer Ramiro.

At the time I thought of it no more, but in the morning when the
horrible news that spread through the Palace gained my ears, that smile
of Ramiro del' Orca recurred to me at once.

It was from the seneschal of the Palace that I first heard that tragic
news. I had but risen, and I was descending from my quarters, when I
came upon him, his old face white as death, a palsy in his limbs.

"Have you heard the news, Ser Lazzaro?" he cried in a quavering voice.

"The news of what?" I asked, struck by the horror in his face.

"Madonna Paola is dead," he told me, with a sob.

I stared at him in speechless consternation, and for a moment I seemed
forlorn of sense and understanding.

"Dead?" I remember whispering. "What is it you say?" And I leaned
forward towards him, peering into his face. "What is it you say?"

"Well may you doubt your ears," he groaned. "But, Vergine Santissima!
it is the truth. Madonna Paola, that sweet angel of God, lies cold and
stiff. They found her so this morning."

"God of Heaven!" I cried out, and leaving him abruptly I dashed down the
steps.

Scarce knowing what I did, acting upon an impulsive instinct that was as
irresistible as it was unreasoning, I made for the apartments of Madonna
Paola. In th