irst, I wanted flowers here--and I have them,
lovely flowers! Then I wanted--but I want nothing now," she added, after
a pause, smiling at Montefiore. "Have you not said that you would love
me always?"

"Yes, my Juana," cried Montefiore, softly, taking her round the waist
and pressing her to his heart, "yes. But let me speak to you as you
speak to God. Are you not as beautiful as Mary in heaven? Listen. I
swear to you," he continued, kissing her hair, "I swear to take that
forehead for my altar, to make you my idol, to lay at your feet all the
luxuries of the world. For you, my palace at Milan; for you my horses,
my jewels, the diamonds of my ancient family; for you, each day, fresh
jewels, a thousand pleasures, and all the joys of earth!"

"Yes," she said reflectively, "I would like that; but I feel within my
soul that I would like better than all the world my husband. Mio caro
sposo!" she said, as if it were impossible to give in any other language
the infinite tenderness, the loving elegance with which the Italian
tongue and accent clothe those delightful words. Besides, Italian was
Juana's maternal language.

"I should find," she continued, with a glance at Montefiore in which
shone the purity of the cherubim, "I should find in _him_ my dear
religion, him and God--God and him. Is he to be you?" she said. "Yes,
surely it will be you," she cried, after a pause. "Come, and see the
picture my father brought me from Italy."

She took a candle, made a sign to Montefiore, and showed him at the foot
of her bed a Saint Michael overthrowing the demon.

"Look!" she said, "has he not your eyes? When I saw you from my window
in the street, our meeting seemed to me a sign from heaven. Every day
during my morning meditation, while waiting for my mother to call me to
prayer, I have so gazed at that picture, that angel, that I have ended
by thinking him my husband--oh! heavens, I speak to you as though you
were myself. I must seem crazy to you; but if you only knew how a poor
captive wants to tell the thoughts that choke her! When alone, I talk to
my flowers, to my tapestry; they can understand me better, I think, than
my father and mother, who are so grave."

"Juana," said Montefiore, taking her hands and kissing them with the
passion that gushed in his eyes, in his gestures, in the tones of his
voice, "speak to me as your husband, as yourself. I have suffered all
that you have suffered. Between us two few words are needed to