When the structure is built, the scaffolding is removed: when we are raised up to Christ, our earthly props are often knocked away.

Ochino was soon to leave Naples—ValdÉs was soon to leave this earthly world. For a little while the Church had rest: and then burst out a furious, fiery persecution. Its burning annals have no place in my story; but I will annex a chapter about it as an Appendix, for those who will not or cannot refer to the original sources.

An advance had taken place in Ochino's opinions, which, for a time, was felt rather than understood by his hearers. He appealed directly to the Scriptures in support of his doctrine, and bade them search for themselves. In spite of his boldness, he not only was allowed to continue to preach in the Cathedral, but, in a chapter held at Naples in 1541, was re-elected General of the Capuchins.

His departure from the Church of Rome was detected, however, by the jealous eye of Cardinal Pole, who wrote to Vittoria Colonna, urging her to beware of his influence, and even exacting from her a promise, which no woman of independent spirit would have given, that she would not read any letter addressed to her by Ochino, without consulting him or Cardinal Cervini. Vittoria gave this promise, and afterwards redeemed it by transmitting to Cardinal Cervini, not one letter, but a packet of letters written to her by Ochino; observing on them, in an accompanying note, "I am grieved to see that the more he attempts to excuse himself, he condemns himself the more; and the more he believes he shall save others from shipwreck, the more he exposes himself to the deluge; being out of the ark which alone can save."

Vittoria was at Rome, the head-quarters of intolerance, attending Fra Ambrogio's lectures in the church of San Silvestro, and sending her servant, after the sermon, to Michael Angelo, saying, "Tell him that I and Messer Lattanzio are here in this cool chapel, that the church is shut and very pleasant, and ask him if he will come and spend the morning with us." And when he came, their talk was not of polemics, but of painting, and of her building a convent on the slope of Monte Cavallo.

Vittoria, having put her hand to the plough, had drawn back; but Giulia had chosen the better part, and has attained the honour of being stigmatised in Romish records as "suspected of heretical pravity."

Oh! how she wept when ValdÉs died! They were tears of sweet and pure affection, unmixed with bitterness or gloomy foreboding, for he had been called, at the second watch, to his rest: and she had now a good assurance of following in the same luminous track, upheld by the same right hand, straight up to heaven, without the intervention of a fearful purgatory.

He was called away in the strength of his manhood, for he was little more than forty, and his twin brother is lost sight of about the same time. Lovely in their lives, in death they were not long divided. Peaceful, natural decline removed them from the persecutions that awaited their followers.

It is not hard to divine his last admonitions to Giulia. "Search the Scriptures, for in them we know that we have eternal life. Pray, dear Signora! pray! As our Lord prayed on the mount, the fashion of His countenance was altered, and His raiment became white and glistening! Doubtless, whenever we pray, the expression of our countenance is altered in the sight of God, if not of man; and our raiment, the righteousness of Christ, becomes white and glistening. Oh, what an incentive to prayer! St. Matthew and St. Luke, you will find, in narrating the transfiguration, do not give us the preface—'and as he prayed.' But how important an addition it is! What a blessing that prayer drew down! It drew prophets and saints from heaven!"

"ValdÉs, dear friend! Would that my prayers might hereafter draw you down from heaven to comfort me! Yet no; I recall the selfish wish. Rather let me fancy you calling, 'Come up hither!'"

"Fancy our Lord so calling you, dear Signora, and it will be mere fancy no longer. All my teaching will have been in vain, if you covet human rather than divine sympathy and help."

"But you have been to me as a brother."

"There is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, Signora. Come, give me a text, ere you leave me, to dwell upon when you are gone."

"'Ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace.'"

"God grant it! And here is one for you, whose time has not yet come to be led forth. 'Behold! I have refined thee, but not with silver'—(not in the same way, that is; not with mere physical heat)—'I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.' See! there is something that escapes us at first. God not only says He has tested us, but that He has chosen us. O, blessed to be the chosen of the Lord——"

"ValdÉs, I seek Him, but I know not that I have yet found Him——"

"Signora! 'let the heart of them rejoice that seek the Lord.'"

While masses were being sung and said for the soul of Cardinal Ippolito, the spirit of ValdÉs departed without a sigh. "For so He giveth His beloved sleep." But were Giulia's affections, which had been gradually refining, then left without a human object? No. By the will of his paternal grandfather, her nephew, Vespasiano, the little Duke of Sabionetta, came into her charge; and the education of the dear little boy, now eight years old, became her care. She procured the best and most enlightened tutors for him, in Tuscan, Latin, and Greek; and despatched an envoy to Charles the Fifth, to secure for him the investiture of the state of Lombardy, and to supersede its administrators by Don Ferrante and Cardinal Ercole Gonzaga.

This young boy was trained up by her in the paths of virtue and godliness; and lovingly did he repay her pains. He grew up a fine character, distinguished for liberality and intelligence; and to him the Jews owed the licence for their printing press at Sabionetta. When he died, in 1591, the line became extinct.

Besides superintending Vespasiano's education, the Duchess devoted herself to visiting the sick in the hospitals, and relieving the poor with her own hands. She shunned the company of the idle and frivolous, and cultivated the friendship of the wise and good. She lived to a ripe old age, shining more and more unto the perfect day—a light in a dark place, during an age of gross corruption—unsullied by the breath of slander, and respected, in spite of her averred 'heretical pravity,' by the Romish Church.

The faithful old maggior-domo, Perez, wrote thus to Vespasiano, on the 19th of April, 1566:

"It appears to me that I should fail in my duty, as a servant for twenty-one years together, towards the deserving memory of the illustrious lady, my Lady Donna Giulia di Gonzaga, your aunt, if I did not offer to condole with your Excellency on her death.

... "Her illustrious ladyship died, as you will have heard by letter from Magnifico Modignano, and from M. Federigo Zanichelli to-day, between twenty-one and twenty-two o'clock. She made an end conforming with her most holy life, continuing sensible to the moment when her sainted spirit left the body. Her will has been opened, and you will have learnt from the before-mentioned Modignano and Zanichelli, that your Excellency is left absolute heir of her property, deducting certain legacies; the will being very different from one executed seven years ago."

To the aforesaid Perez she left an annuity of a hundred ducats: to Caterina, her maid, two hundred ducats down, and a bed and bedding. To Petrillo, whom she had brought up in her house, a thousand ducats; or, in case of his death before he were of age, half that sum to his father and mother. To Metello, her page, a hundred ducats down. To the brother of her former maid, Caterina Rosso, and to his two children, a hundred ducats each, in remembrance of her services. To her chaplain, twenty ducats. To Madonna Antonia, her lady's-maid, twenty ducats and her salary. To two little girls assisting in the kitchen, ten ducats each, besides their wages. To all the house-servants, their expenses for a month.

Also, remembrances to the nuns of Santa Clara, and to certain officers of the Hospital for Incurables.

Also marriage portions to sundry young women, and legacies to her physicians.

Also legacies to four hospitals.

This remarkable entry was made——

"I leave Cynthia, my slave, to the said Vespasiano my heir, whom I direct to take her to his state of Lombardy; and, when he has come to the truth of what I wished to know from her, to give her in marriage in that province, with two hundred ducats currency as dowry, and to make her free and set her at liberty."

And, on re-consideration, towards the close of the will,—after leaving a legacy to her undutiful daughter-in-law, and to her sister, a nun,——

"If ever any person be found who may have given me offence in any manner whatsoever, I freely pardon them, and beg my heir not to bear any resentment. I also order and bind my said heir that he use no constraint or severity towards the said Cynthia;—nor am I careful that he should learn from her what I said before that I wished to know; but that he shall make her free and set her at liberty, and give her in marriage in the province of Lombardy, as I before said."

If looks could kill, would not the stubborn, impenetrable Cynthia have been annihilated by the glances that were given her by the rest of the Duchess's women, when this testamentary disposition transpired? Had they the concentrated power of burning-glasses, she would have borne them just as stoutly. All her life she had been sinning and inly repenting; but, to draw from her one word she did not choose to speak—no! that they should not! She, an Abencerrage, to be treated like a slave? She had no feelings in common with her captors: she hated their race, and despised their creed. She only made an exception in favour of the Duchess; but the Duchess did not understand her: nobody understood her. Oh! how hackneyed a complaint it is, that we are not understood!

So, although Cynthia had shed sincere tears for her mistress, she felt a gloomy glory, when she heard the first clause relating to herself, in thinking that the more the young Duke insisted on her telling, the more she would never mind. But when she found her gentle mistress had retracted that command, and left her mentally and bodily at liberty—she stole away to a solitary place, and there shed big tears, beating her breast, and saying,

"O Leila, Leila! You loved me!—and indeed I loved you!"