ogether at his feet.

On his left side stood Cardinal Altieri, erect and motionless in his
purple cassock with red buttons, and his scarlet silk cloak. His face
was grave and inscrutable.

'Holy Father,' he had said, as the pair knelt down, 'these are the
prisoners who implore your pardon.'

That was all he said, and for some moments the Pope did not speak,
though he nodded his snowy head twice, in answer to the Cardinal's
words, and his gentle eyes looked from the one young face to the other
as if reading the meaning of each.

'You sang to me a year ago, my son,' he said at length to Stradella. 'Go
now and stand a little way off and make music, for though I am old I
hear well; and do your best, for I will be your judge. If I find you
have even greater mastery than last year, your skill shall atone for
your rude handling of my nephew; but if you sing less well, you must
have an opportunity of practising and perfecting your art in solitude
for a few months.'

If Stradella had dared to glance at the kindly face just then, he would
certainly have noticed how the dark eyes brightened, and almost
twinkled. But Ortensia, being a woman, and still full of girlhood's
innocent daring, was boldly looking up at the Pope while he spoke; and
he smiled at her, and one shadowy hand went out and rested on the black
veil she had pinned upon her hair.

'Go and stand near your husband while he sings to me,' he said. 'You
will give him courage, I am sure!'

The two rose together, and Stradella took up the lute he had laid beside
him on the floor when he had knelt down at the Pope's feet. He and
Ortensia stepped back half-a-dozen paces, and the musician stood still,
but Ortensia moved a little farther away and to one side. The windows
were wide open to the west, and the rich evening light flooded the white
and gold room, and illumined the figure of the aged Pope, the strong
features of the tall grey-haired Cardinal beside him, and the two young
faces of the singer and his wife.

Stradella's heart beat fast and faintly, and his fingers trembled when
they touched the strings and made the first minor chord. As long as he
lived he remembered how at that very moment two swallows shot by the
open window, uttering their eager little note; the room swam with him,
and he thought he was going to reel and fall. For a moment he saw
nothing and knew nothing, except that he had reached the end of the
short prelude on the lute, and that he must f