uredly he will die of it--and he so young, Peppino, and so comely to
behold!"

Francesco stirred, and a sigh fluttered through his pallid lips. Then
he raised his heavy lids, and their glances met and held each other. And
so, eyes that were brown and tender looked down into feverish languid
eyes of black, what time her gentle hand held the moist cloth to his
aching brow.

"Angel of beauty!" he murmured dreamily, being but half-awake as yet to
his position. Then, becoming conscious of her ministrations, "Angel of
goodness!" he added, with yet deeper fervour.

She had no answer for him, saving such answer--and in itself it was
eloquent enough--as her blushes made, for she was fresh from a convent
and all innocent of worldly ways and tricks of gallant speech.

"Do you suffer?" she asked at last.

"Suffer?" quoth he, now waking more and more, and his voice sounding
a note of scorn. "Suffer? My head so pillowed and a saint from Heaven
ministering to my ills? Nay, I am in no pain, Madonna, but in a joy more
sweet than I have ever known."

"Gesu! What a nimble tongue!" gibed the fool from the background.

"Are you there, too, Master Buffoon?" quoth Francesco. "And Fanfulla?
Is he not here? Why, now I bethink me; he went to Acquasparta with the
friar." He thrust his elbow under him for more support.

"You must not move," said she, thinking that he would essay to rise.

"I would not, lady, if I must," he answered solemnly. And then, with his
eyes upon her face, he boldly asked her name.

"My name," she answered readily, "is Valentina della Rovere, and I am
niece to Guidobaldo of Urbino."

His brows shot up.

"Do I indeed live," he questioned, "or do I but dream the memories of
some old romancer's tale, in which a wandering knight is tended thus by
a princess?"

"Are you a knight?" she asked, a wonder coming now into her eyes, for
even into the seclusion of her convent-life had crept strange stories of
these mighty men-at-arms.

"Your knight at least, sweet lady," answered he, "and ever your poor
champion if you will do me so much honour."

A crimson flush stole now into her cheeks, summoned by his bold words
and bolder glances, and her eyes fell. Yet, resentment had no part in
her confusion. She found no presumption in his speech, nor aught that
a brave knight might not say to the lady who had succoured him in his
distress. Peppe, who stood listening and marking the Count's manner,
knowing the knight's station