y this evening come to Rome. And so no
later than this evening I am playing link-boy, appointed by letters
patent, one might say. But what will you? Youth is youth, whether in a
ploughboy or a--But my tongue needs a gag. Another word, and I had said
too much. Well, since you will be going, good-night. We shall meet, no
doubt, in a certain house that overlooks the Tiber."

"Hardly," said Gaydon, "since I leave Rome to-morrow."

"Indeed? You leave Rome to-morrow?" said Whittington. "I would I were as
fortunate," and he jerked his thumb dolefully towards the Caprara
Palace. Gaydon hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not he
should ask Whittington to be silent upon their meeting. But he
determined the man was too incautious in his speech. If he begged him
not to mention Gaydon's presence in Rome, he would remember it the more
surely, and if nothing was said he might forget it. Gaydon wished him
good-night and went back to his lodging, walking rather moodily.
Whittington looked after him and chuckled.

Meanwhile, in a room of the house two people sat,--one the slight,
graceful man who had accompanied Whittington and whom Gaydon had
correctly guessed to be his King, the other, Maria Vittoria de Caprara.
The Chevalier de St. George was speaking awkwardly with a voice which
broke. Maria listened with a face set and drawn. She was a girl both in
features and complexion of a remarkable purity. Of colour, but for her
red lips, she had none. Her hair was black, her face of a clear pallor
which her hair made yet more pale. Her eyes matched her hair, and were
so bright and quick a starry spark seemed to glow in the depths of them.
She was a poet's simile for night.

The Chevalier ended and sat with his eyes turned away. Maria Vittoria
did not change her attitude, nor for a while did she answer, but the
tears gathered in her eyes and welled over. They ran down her cheeks;
she did not wipe them away, she did not sob, nor did her face alter from
its fixity. She did not even close her eyes. Only the tears rained down
so silently that the Prince was not aware of them. He had even a thought
as he sat with his head averted that she might have shown a trifle more
of distress, and it was almost with a reproach upon his lips that he
turned to her. Never was a man more glad that he had left a word
unspoken. This silent grief of tears cut him to the heart.

"Maria!" he cried, and moved towards her. She made no gesture to repel
him