es, hold hands, kiss, and no one is
hurt. So it was in Ferrara when Borso ruled it. _Praeteriere Borsii
tempora!_ True enough. There were those who saw that tuneful time in the
shaping; we, alas! look down on the splintered shards. But we know that
if Assyrian balm was ever for the world's chaffer it was in the days of
Borso, the good Duke.

Angioletto loved his Bellaroba with all his heart: no debonair Lionella
could decoy him to be untrue. But he was debonair himself, of high
courage, and mettlesome; and he may have gone a little too far. He was
now become her confidant, secretary, bosom friend. Whence came the shock
of crisis.

One morning Lionella called for him in a hurry. He found her, an amused
frown on her broad brows, pacing the terrace walk, holding an open
letter in her hand. The moment he came in sight the Countess ran towards
him, drew his arm in hers, and began to speak very fast.

"My dear boy," she said, "I am in a fix. You shall advise me how to act,
the more willingly I hope, as you are in a sense the contriver of all
the mischief. You know the Count my husband well enough to agree with
me that he is a man of gallantry. He has proved it, for it is plain that
he would never have left me (to my great content) to go my own gait
unless it had been worth his while. I do him perfect justice, I believe.
He has never thwarted me, nor frowned, nor raised an eyebrow at an act
or motion of mine. Never but once, and that was when I proposed to take
you into my service. Don't blush, Angioletto, it is quite true. He then
raised, not his eyebrows--at least I think not--but some little
objections. I said that I was old enough to be your mother--no, no, that
also is true, my dear! He answered, 'No doubt; but it is very evident
that you are not his mother.' That again may be true, I suppose?
However, the affair ended in great good-humour on both sides, and here
you are, as you see! But now the Count sends me this letter, in which he
says--let me see--ah! 'Your ladyship will remember my not ungenerous
conduct in the matter of the little poet, Angioletto, on whose account
you had certain benevolent dispositions to gratify'--neatly turned, is
it not? 'I have now to propose to you, turn for turn, a like favour to
myself, which is that you shall take into your service a young
gentlewoman of Venice, who is but newly come to Ferrara'--What is the
matter, Angioletto? You put me out. Where was I? Oh, yes--'She is
respectably