oncerning myself.

And so I sat there moodily, gnawing my lip and scowling darkly upon Pier
Luigi and upon my cousin, who was as assiduous in his attentions as his
master, and who seemed to be receiving an even greater proportion of her
favours. One little thing there was to hearten me. Looking at the Lord
of Pagliano, who sat at the table's head, I observed that his glance
was dark as it kept watch upon his daughter--that chaste white lily that
seemed of a sudden to have assumed such wanton airs.

It was a matter that stirred me to battle, and forgotten again were my
resolves to seek Gervasio, forgotten all notion of abandoning the world
for the second time. Here was work to be done. Bianca was to be guarded.
Perhaps it was in this that she would come to have need of me.

Once Cosimo caught my gloomy looks, and he leaned over to speak to the
Duke, who glanced my way with languid, sneering eyes. He had a score to
settle with me for the discomfiture he had that morning suffered at my
hands thanks to Bianca's collaboration. He was a clumsy fool, when all
is said, and confident now of her support--from the sudden and extreme
friendliness of her mood--he ventured to let loose a shaft at me in a
tone that all the table might overhear.

"That cousin of yours wears a very conventual hang-dog look," said he to
Cosimo. And then to the lady on my right--"Forgive, Valeria," he begged,
"the scurvy chance that should have sat a shaveling next to you." Lastly
he turned to me to complete this gross work of offensiveness.

"When do you look, sir, to enter the life monastic for which Heaven has
so clearly designed you?"

There were some sycophants who tittered at his stupid pleasantry; then
the table fell silent to hear what answer I should make, and a frown sat
like a thundercloud upon the brow of Cavalcanti.

I toyed with my goblet, momentarily tempted to fling its contents in
his pustuled face, and risk the consequences. But I bethought me of
something else that would make a deadlier missile.

"Alas!" I sighed. "I have abandoned the notion--constrained to it."

He took my bait. "Constrained?" quoth he. "Now what fool did so
constrain you?"

"No fool, but circumstance," I answered. "It has occurred to me," I
explained, and I boldly held his glance with my own, "that as a simple
monk my life would be fraught with perils, seeing that in these times
even a bishop is not safe."

Saving Bianca (who in her sweet innocence did no