To the Duchess he prevaricated and hinted that the sudden death of the child was due to the malignant spotted fever, and that he had given personal instructions for the immediate removal and interment of her body.  The brethren of the Misericordia might have enlightened the grief-stricken mother, only they were sworn to secrecy; they knew how the beauteous young girl had died.  They laid her fair body to rest in a grave unknown even to her father, and not among her people in San Lorenzo.

Cosimo moved the Court immediately to Livorno, and thence to Pisa, and there they kept their Lenten fast in strict seclusion.  There was universal grief in Florence where the unhappy Princess, though rarely seen in public, had become the favourite of the people, through her fresh young beauty and by what was known of the sweetness of her character and the brilliancy of her attainments.

Duchess Eleanora and her children mourned piteously for lovely Maria:  there seemed to be no solace for their grief.  As for the Duke, he was a changed man, the bitterness of remorse had turned his natural reserve into moroseness.  He was like one beside himself, his wonted firmness and self-control, at times, failed to stay him, and he preferred to shut himself up alone in one of the towers of the castle at Livorno, venting his passionate despair in fits of weeping and in abject cries of self-reproach.

No one dared to go near to him, for to all who presumed to intrude upon his woes he was like a lion roused.  That ever ready secret blade might be whipped out to another’s undoing!  Still, in calmer moments he reflected, as Muzio has suggestively written:  “Maria was very beautiful, as beautiful as any child of earth, most courteous and gentle, her seriousness compelled everyone to respect her, her sprightliness, to love her.  She was pleasing to Heaven, whither she had gone sinless to reinforce the angelic choir, and to wear the most fragrant coronal of roses among the companies of holy virgins.”

As for the unfortunate young Malatesta, he pined in his dungeon within the keep of San Giovanni for a while, but “hope springeth ever in youthful hearts,” and his one and consuming thought was of escape.  His conduct seems to have been exemplary, and he gained the sympathy and friendship of his gaolers.  At length he ventured to unbosom himself to a worthy sergeant of the guard, and this man assisted him, knowing well what great risk they both incurred.

One evening Malatesta unseen, save by his friend, scaled the prison wall, and made good his escape from Florence and Tuscany.  He did not venture to seek sanctuary within his father’s castle, but, flying to the coast, boarded a vessel bound for Candia, a fief of Venice, and outside Duke Cosimo’s jurisdiction.  Various tales are told of his future career—­some affirm that assassins, in the pay of Duke Cosimo, tracked him to his doom, and others, that he fell, fighting against the Turks at Famagusta.  Anyhow, the kindly sergeant was put to death by order of the Duke!