pointed, fulvous beard suggest
a possibility of foxy cunning, and inspire in the beholder an
uncomfortable, haunting feeling of distrust even when the Cardinal's
manner is most condescending and cajoling.

So, robed in filmy lace over rosy velvet, we may see him in imagination
tripping daintily down his monumental staircase, his train islanding his
figure as in some ensanguined pool and slipping after him adown the
steps like the drip of some trail of blood which strangely leaves no
stain upon the white marble.

But his face is wreathed with smiles, for he genuinely loves his two
beautiful nieces, Lucrezia, Duchess of Urbino, and the gentle Leonora,
who are his guests, and he loves his villa, whose beauties he is
pointing out to them.

"You do not see the garden at its best," he cavils. "Wait till the roses
garland the balustrades. It is too early yet to enjoy Tivoli; the frost
may have left the ground but it lingers still in the pavements of this
great palace. The halls are damp as vaults; we would have done well, my
nieces, to have remained another month in Rome. Not till the middle of
May will society desert the city for its _villeggiatura_. What do you
say, Leonora, shall we confess that we have made a mistake and return?"

"Dear uncle, as you say, it is only the palace which, in spite of its
braziers, retains the winter chill. Here in the garden the air is balmy,
and the Judas trees are all a crimson mist. See how the green is
creeping, like an inundation through the russets of last year's grasses.
In another fortnight all this magical change will have been wrought, and
those who come later will have missed the fairy spectacle."

"Spectacle! ah! that reminds me," replied the Cardinal; "while Nature is
shifting the scenes we must prepare the _scenario_. Confess that I have
provided a worthy theatre, one which should suggest to a poet a worthy
theme. There, alas! is my great lack--I have no poet. How wastefully on
those who need them not are the most precious gifts bestowed! My uncle
and godfather, Cardinal Ippolito--the saints rest his soul!--was a
dull-brained barbarian and yet he had attached to his service that pearl
of poets Ariosto, whom he had neither the intelligence to appreciate nor
the justice to reward. What think you was Ariosto's meed for dedicating
to his patron the _Orlando Furioso_? He was made governor of that nest
of bandits, the mountain district of Garfagnana, and it in open
insurrection aga