Past fatigues and present danger did not disturb my happy meditations. I paced the cloister of San Lorenzo without regard for them, absorbed in considering my future conduct, and the relationship in which I stood to my little world of circumstance. It was necessary that I should make plans for myself and for Virginia, and I made and rejected many without modifying them one and all, as well I might have done, by allowing for the part which the gallows, the gaol or the hulks might play in them. As my habit has always been, I endeavoured to judge the case upon its merits, and to adjust myself to it, not so much according to my desires as to my duties towards it. Here—to remind the reader—are the three factors of my problem.

1. I had, of my own act, withdrawn myself from Aurelia's society, having done her all the reparation I could, and obtained her forgiveness.

2. I had constituted myself Virginia's champion against the Marchese Semifonte.

3. I had killed Fra Palamone.

Now, to take these in order, it was plainly my duty to quit the side of the fair Aurelia. Even though she were and were to remain for me the shining orb of my firmament, in whose beam I must for ever walk—I must not see her again. I had obtained from her all that I could hope for, and given her quite as much as, if not more than, she desired. To stay by her now would be to compromise her; I could not be blind to the conviction of all my acquaintance, which saw in me that horrible spectacle, the lover of a married woman, accepted as such by her lawful master. Robbery! of which I could never be capable. No more of Aurelia, then, no more. She must depart like a dream before the stern face of the morrow—or I must depart. Happy, perhaps, for her, whatever it may have been for me, that she herself had taken the first step when she turned her back upon me in pique.

I disregarded Palamone's bloody end. I had executed a criminal, a procurer for hire, a vile thing unworthy to live; but what was I to do with Virginia? There was a young woman of capacity, merit and beauty, whose honour I had taken in charge. So far I had maintained it, and there were two ways in which I could continue so to do. In return, she had given me devotion of the most singular kind—for it is extreme devotion that a girl should bear obloquy and humiliation for the sake of a man who has defended her. There was no doubt also but that I was master of her heart; no doubt at all but that she would give herself to me without thought if I lifted a finger. The conviction of such a truth is a dangerous possession for a man, and I don't pretend that I was insensible to it, any more than I was to her definite and personal charm. He is divine, not human, who remains cold and unbiased with the knowledge that here, at his disposal, is a lovely and ardent female, longing to be in his arms. Now, I had withdrawn her from her home, defied a claimant to her, and killed a man who sought her ruin, and what was I going to do? I saw that there were two courses open; but that unless it were possible to do as the rest of her acquaintance had tried to do, there was but one. Was I to kill Palamone in order that I might ruin her myself? Good Heavens! my name was Strelley of Upcote. There was one course, and I must take that.

I did not love Virginia; I admit it. I knew that she was beautiful, and knew that she was mine for the asking, but a truce to casuistry! In her safety was involved my own honour, to her defence must go my own life. I admired, I respected, I was grateful, I wished her well. I determined to marry her, and the sooner the better. Having come to this conclusion, I knew myself well enough to believe that no power in the world could shake me from it.

When, therefore, the good girl returned to me, white and out of breath, with sausages, bread, and a flask of wine under her apron, I welcomed her as befitted one in the position in which I now designed her to stand. I took off my hat to her and relieved her of her burden. She noticed the courtesy; the colour flew back to her cheeks, but I observed that her breath was not thereby restored.

She became very voluble—to hide her confusion; for by ordinary she was sparing of speech (or did she guess the lover in the master? Who can tell?). The wine, she told me, was easy got, and the bread. "The sausage," she went on—"ah, it would have been as easy to give you one of my legs for sausages. I went first to Il Torto's in the Borgo; it was shut for mezzodi. I begin tapping—the wife opens. 'Chi e?' says she; and I see a sbirro in the shop, eating polenta. 'Niente, niente,' I say, and run. That told me that the babbo was away, and that his wife had a lover in the constabulary. Remember it, Don Francis, we may have need of her—who knows? Shall I confess to you that I stole your sausage?"

"Confess what you please, my dear," said I, "I shall shrive you." Her eyes were dewy, but she lowered them too soon.

"It was a sin," she said, "but I do not intend to eat any sausage, so I shall be forgiven. But you see that the spies are all abroad. Now, I have just thought of something, Don Francis. We cannot remain in this cloister—at least, I cannot. If a canon awoke before his time—and it needs but a fly to settle on a nose to cause it—and if he poke his head out of his door, the first thing he will do will be to look at me—"

"Naturally, Virginia," I said. "It is what I am doing."

"I am well aware of it," said Virginia, and showed that she spoke the truth; "but the second thing he will do will be to look at you. I don't think we can afford ourselves this honour, so let us go. There is a way from here into the library, thence into the church, and from there to the Sagrestia Nuova, if we could only find it, whither nobody goes but a grand duke—and he only when he is dead. Let us go by that—will you not come? It is true that I am rather frightened by now."

I got up at once. "Come, then, child, let us hunt out our way." We went upstairs.

The long library was quite empty. We went to the further end on tiptoe. There were three doors at the bottom in three bays, surmounted by busts. We chose for the right hand and turned the handle. It gave into a narrow passage, lined with bookcases and dimly lighted. "I think this will be the way," Virginia said, and took the key out of the door and locked it on the inside. We followed the passage to a flight of stone steps, descended these in their curving course round a pillar, and came upon a little arched doorway. Virginia opened it. It led directly into the church of San Lorenzo. We saw the hanging lamps before the altars, and a boy in a short surplice asleep in a confessional.

"Wait here, wait here," says Virginia. "I will make him lead us into the
Sagrestia."

I saw her go, lightly as a hare in the grass, towards the boy, and wondered. She stooped over him where he was huddled anyhow, as children are when they are asleep, and whispered in his ear. "Carino, carino, do you sleep? I am talking to you, carino, do you hear me? Say yes."

"Si, si," the boy murmured, and sighed and struggled.

"I am speaking to you, carino. I am tired; I want to sleep also. Tell me how to reach the Sagrestia, where the monsters lie sleeping and waking; whisper it, whisper it, and I will kiss you for it." I heard her soothing "Hush! Hush!" as he stirred. She went on whispering in his ear. It seemed to me that she was insinuating herself into his dreams. He stirred more than once, turned his head about; every moment I expected to see him open his eyes; but no. As Virginia continued to whisper, he began to murmur in his sleep, she directing him. He answered, laughed softly, turned about, slept always. I saw Virginia kiss his forehead. Then she came winging back to me; she seemed hardly to touch the pavement. "Come, come. I know the way. The door is open." She flitted away towards the high altar, I following. We gained the ambulatory behind. A door from this stood ajar; Virginia pushed in, I after her. We followed a flagged corridor for some distance and found ourselves in the Sagrestia Nuova with Michael Angelo's monsters sprawling and brooding in the half light. Virginia clasped me in her arms. "Francesco mio, I have saved thee. Sanctuary with thee! Oh, love thy poor Virginia!"

She pressed closely to me, and began to touch and stroke my cheeks; she put her hand at the back of my head, as it were to force my face down to look at her. Touched, excited, amorous in my turn, I encircled her with my arms and kissed her fondly.

"Dearest, best, kindest Virginia," I said, "you have proved my friend indeed. I have much to thank you for, much to say to you. Let us choose a place in which to eat our breakfast; I am as hungry as the devil."

Cruel, abominable speech of mine! I wounded her dreadfully; scalding tears testified to a bruised heart; but to her relief came pride.

"Stop," said she, "you shall not eat yet. I am hungrier than you, whom bread will satisfy. I am famished." I would have made amends, but she drew away from me, and folded her arms. "Let me understand. You kissed me just now. Were you false to Aurelia? Did you intend to insult that girl whom you taught to fear insult?"

I said, No, that had never been my intention, but it had been quite otherwise. "Donna Aurelia," I said, "has been restored to her proper place. She will find salvation where her happiness is, and I have been considering mine, whether I can find it in my happiness also."

"One thing at a time," said she, breathing very fast. "Has Donna Aurelia's husband returned?" I told her that he had not, but that there were good hopes of him shortly.

"And you have said farewell? You are free—free as the air?"

"It is my duty," I told her, "never to see Donna Aurelia again, and I will not if I can help it."

She frowned, then threw up her hands. "I don't understand anything about you! Is this love or madness? You love a lady, who loves you—you find her here—alone—you meet—you speak—you look at each other—you take her by the hand and lead her back to her husband—and tell her that she will never see you again. And she allows it!"

"Not only so," said I, "but it was she who turned her back upon me. And she did rightly."

"Why did she so?" she asked me. I had to tell her that it was on her account.

It made her peer with her eyes, in which, however, a keen light burned. She took a step towards me; I thought she would be in my arms; but instead she stopped short, breathing fast through her nostrils.

'"Tell me this, tell me this," she said, "was she the fool, or were you?"

I laughed. "My girl," I told her, "if I am a fool it is not for you to say so. But I believe, for all that, that you are paying me a compliment." She did not comprehend me, so took refuge in a quip— tossing her head at me.

She said, "I wish your worship joy of my compliment."

I took her. "I intend that you shall do more than wish me joy, child. I intend that you shall give it me, and be my joy."

This altered her tune. She quickly released herself and pointed to the victuals she had risked herself to get. "Let us eat," she said, "and talk afterwards. Forgive me if I troubled you just now. I have suffered and am a little over-wrought. Forgive me."

I kissed her again, she not forbidding me; we put our cloaks below that enormous figure of the Thinker, and sat down to our breakfast; we ate our sausages and drank our wine. Colour came back into Virginia's grave face, light danced in her eyes; she became more herself, but with an excitement latent within her which betrayed itself in little hasty acts of affection, quick movements, half caressing, half petulant—as if she would soothe me, and, half way, change her mood and be minded to scratch. I became interested, I wondered how long she would leave our affairs in doubt; rather unkindly, I held my tongue, just for the pleasure of seeing her make the next advance. And then—in spite of my curiosity—fatigue began to creep over me. I had been thirty-six hours awake, had bid an everlasting farewell to a mistress, restored, or done my best to restore, a banished wife to her husband's arms, shot a man, saved a virgin's honour, made matrimonial advances, run for my life. Here was a good day and a half's work. After a profusion of yawns, which, try as I would, I could not stifle, I said, "Forgive me, my dear, if I go to sleep. I find myself mortally tired—and you must be in the same case. Let us lie down here and rest ourselves."

"Sleep, my lord, sleep," said she, with beautiful, tender seriousness, and spread my cloak on a bench for me. She took off my sword and knelt, as her custom of old had been, to kiss my hand. I felt then that I must needs love this loving child. I lifted her up, and, "Kneel no more to me, my girl," I said. "You and I are ruined together. I cannot obey my father, who will disinherit me. You are no better off. Hunted animals don't kneel to each other, but league themselves to face their persecutors. Virginia, be mine!"

She said nothing, and would not meet my eyes. I drew her to me, embraced her with my arm, kissed her cold lips.

"Do you know what I am doing, Virginia?" I said. "Do you know what I need of you, my only friend?"

"Yes, Don Francis," she said. "You are making love to me, and it is your right. I have never refused you, and never shall. But you must not ask me to marry you."

If I were nettled, it was because a man, having made up his mind, is not willingly thwarted—for no other reason. But I do not know that I can accuse myself even of so much. I did not let her go, nor did I cease to kiss her. I told her, I believe, with as much calmness as is possible under the circumstances, that I was perfectly determined; I said that she need have no fear of the future, even though in taking me she would take no such fortune as I ought to offer to my wife. She flamed up at this and cried out that she wanted no fortune and had never led me to believe it. "Well and good, child," I replied, "in that case you need have no fears at all, for I, on my side, can ask you to admit that I have given you no reason to suppose me a villain. If I take you and all that you have, believe me I shall give you in return my mind and affection as well as the respect and gratitude which you have already. Believe me, Virginia—"

She moaned and rocked herself about. "Oh, I love you so! Oh, do not tempt me—oh, my lord, my lord, what shall I do? Oh, Madonna purissima, help me now!" I caught her to my heart.

"Virginia! as beautiful as you are true, you are worthy of a better love than mine," I cried. "But a more tender love you will never have. Friend, saviour, dear and faithful, beloved companion, I need you— come!"

She struggled faintly to put me away. She withheld her lips by averting her head; but I caught at her wrists and held her arms to her sides. By- and-by she let me have my will, and gave me kiss for kiss. I had won her; she was mine utterly from that hour.

"My lord and my love," she said, "you have conquered me. I will be yours in the manner you desire. You may be humbling yourself, but you are exalting me. Have no fear—I will make you happy. Ah, but how I will work for you! You have never seen me work yet! I am your servant still— your faithful servant."

"We shall serve each other, I hope, my child," I said. "There will be work for me to do also. But what is immediately before us is to escape from Florence."

Virginia got up. "Sleep you here, my soul, I will go out and see how the land lies. Before morning I will see you again." She clasped me to her bosom and kissed me fondly, then went quickly out, as swift and salient in her joy as a keen wind of spring that carries health in its forceful pride. I slept profoundly until daylight, little knowing what her immediate errand was.