ingular grace,
she carried her head as proudly as any Queen. Her fair hair fell in a
rippling cascade far below her waist; her face, hands, and throat, we
are told, were "white as lilies," save for the delicate rose-colour that
tinted her cheeks. Her eyes were large and dark, and of an almost
dazzling brilliance; and her full, pouting lips were red and fragrant as
a rose.

Such was Bianca Capello on the threshold of womanhood, as you may see
her pictured to-day in Bronzino's miniature at the British Museum, with
a loveliness which set the hearts of the Venetian gallants a-flutter
before our Shakespeare was in his cradle. She might, if she would, have
mated with almost any noble in Tuscany, had not her foolish, wayward
fancy fallen on Pietro Bonaventuri, a handsome young clerk in Salviati's
bank, whose eyes had often strayed from his ledgers to follow her as, in
the company of her maid, the Senator's daughter took her daily walk past
his office window.

At sight of so fair a vision Pietro was undone; he fell violently in
love with her long before he exchanged a word with her, and although no
one knew better than he the gulf that separated the daughter of a
nobleman and a Senator from the drudge of the quill, he determined to
win her. Youth and good-looks such as his, with plenty of assurance to
support them, had done as much for others, and they should do it for
him. How they first met we know not, but we know that shortly after this
momentous meeting Bianca had completely lost her heart to the knight of
the quill, with the handsome face, the dark, flashing eyes, and the
courtly manner.

Other meetings followed--secret rendezvous arranged by the duenna
herself in return for liberal bribes--to keep which Bianca would steal
out of her father's palace at dead of night, leaving the door open
behind her to ensure safe return before dawn. On one such occasion, so
the story runs, Bianca returned to find the door closed against her by a
too officious hand. She dared not wake the sleepers to gain
admittance--that would be to expose her secret and to cover herself with
disgrace--and in her fears and alarm she fled back to her lover.

However this may be, we know that, for some urgent reason or other, the
young lovers disappeared one night together from Venice and made their
way to Florence to find a refuge under the roof of Pietro's parents.
Here a terrible disillusion met Bianca at the threshold. Her
husband--for, on the run