sought her parish priest; mostly it was the
wonder-working Virgin in Sant' Antonio or, at the greatest stress, the
Saint's own black sarcophagus in the lighted chapel, to lay upon it a
feverish palm or hot, indignant cheek. By some such aids as these she
preserved entire her head, her heart, all her precious store, so that no
flattery ever tarnished the clear glass of her mind, no assaults,
however fierce, could bruise the root of modesty within her.

Her father, vexed man, at first felt the glory of his daughter, shone
by her reflected light, guessed (and had reasonable grounds for
guessing) the profit it might be; but lastly, seeing the suitors sought
not to marry her, and she would do no less, he grew disgusted with so
windy a business, beat her for what was no fault of hers, and bade her
be sold or begone. Ippolita, who began her day's processioning with
music and flowers, ended it mostly in tears and stripes. There seemed no
escape. If she went to draw water at the well the courtiers jostled for
her first salutation; if she went to mass in the grey of the morning,
so, blinking, did they. The priest who confessed her paid her
compliments, the blind beggar at the church door looked at her out of
one eye. She was incredibly the fashion; and the women, far from being
jealous, were as wild about her as the men. She could have had a Court
of Virgins, or gone like Artemis, buskined through the thickets, with a
hundred high-girdled nymphs behind her, all for her sake locked in
chastity. They also made her presents, which her father sold, until
(learning to fear the Greeks, their brothers), she gently forbore them.
Whereupon, the honest stone-mason had fresh cause for chastisement of so
incalculably calculating a child.

The hunted fair at last came to a point where she must stand or deliver.
From three desperate lovers there seemed no sure road. All that was
possible she did. She consulted her priest; he patted her cheek. A very
old woman of her intimacy advised her to look in the glass; she did, and
blushed at her own distressful face. A friar of the order of Saint
Francis plumply told her to choose the most solid of her pursuers and
make the most of him. "Such roses as yours, my daughter," said he,
"should be early to market. You are sixteen now; but remember that by
the mercy of Heaven you may live to be six and sixty. That's the time
when the pot wants lining. If you have not the experience, pray how are
you to direct