d, "have a
little pity on a torturing wretch!"

Molly now covered her face and freely sobbed. The scene was
heartrending, and Grifone judged that he might give the finishing
stroke. He stood over her where she was flung (the poor humble soul),
and laid his fingers lightly on her silken shoulder.

"Love makes a good reader of a man," he said slowly, drawling his words.
"Long ago I discerned the clear stream of truth which is the issue of
your love. Henceforward there is a secret pact between us two, a secret
wholly honourable, since I have only told it that you might be won over
not to dare me too far. Being honourable, you (who are the fountain of
honour) will keep it. We go our two ways, we look not on each other, we
greet not, neither speak what either knows. Chance will throw us much
together; yet this law we will punctually observe. To me the hour will
say--'Guard thee, Grifone, thy sweet enemy draws near.' To you--'Now
goodness be thy guide, Molly, lest thou art a cause of stumbling to thy
brother.' So let it always be."

He left her then, knowing very well that he had sworn the good girl to
faith inviolable, and given her the subject of perennial thought.

And so he had. Molly kept his secret, honoured it, honoured him. She
came by tortuous ways of her hoodblind heart to glory and exult in both;
nor had she the wit to discern how or by what stealthy degrees the pain
and longing she pitied in him grew to be more pitiable in herself. She
watched him wonderfully in those crowded days of court life which
followed, and when she was blinded by her tears, held him as a martyr
who, for her sake, lay quivering under the knife. It shows the length of
her road, that she was never aware how much more in her sight he was
than Amilcare, the man of her election. Amilcare, it is true, was
greatly occupied: one cannot be a duke for nothing. Not home affairs
only (though discontent was never far off) called him from home: the
times were full of the shock of alarms; thrones toppled; there were
rumours of moving hosts beyond the Alps. Cesare, the flame-coloured
Borgia, was still meditating his kingdom in Romagna; already the Lady of
Forli was flogging her sulky lieges into some sort of action for her
defence. Now, Nona lay dead in the Borgia's way, and unless the Borgia
could be hoodwinked again as he had been hoodwinked before, Nona need
not cease to be a Duchy, but Amilcare would cease to be a Duke. No
wonder the man was a lack