Then lifting Agnes to her seat, he placed the reins in her hand.

“Are you rested?” he asked.

It was the first time since her rescue that he had spoken to Agnes.  The words were brief, but no expressions of endearment could convey more than the manner in which they were spoken.

“Yes, my Lord,” said Agnes, firmly, “I am rested.”

“You think you can bear the ride?”

“I can bear anything, so I escape,” she said.

The company were now all mounted, and were marshalled in regular order.  A body of armed men rode in front; then came Agnes and the Princess, with Agostino between them, while two or three troopers rode on either side; Elsie, Monica, and the servants of the Princess followed close behind, and the rear was brought up in like manner by armed men.

The path wound first through the grounds of the villa, with its plats of light and shade, its solemn groves of stone-pines rising like palm-trees high in air above the tops of all other trees, its terraces and statues and fountains,—­all seeming so lovely in the midnight stillness.

“Perhaps I am leaving all this forever,” said the Princess.

“Let us hope for the best,” said Agostino.  “It cannot be that God will suffer the seat of the Apostles to be subjected to such ignominy and disgrace much longer.  I am amazed that no Christian kings have interfered before for the honor of Christendom.  I have it from the best authority that the King of Naples burst into tears when he heard of the election of this wretch to be Pope.  He said that it was a scandal which threatened the very existence of Christianity.  He has sent me secret messages divers times expressive of sympathy, but he is not of himself strong enough.  Our hope must lie either in the King of France or the Emperor of Germany:  perhaps both will engage.  There is now a most holy monk in Florence who has been stirring all hearts in a wonderful way.  It is said that the very gifts of miracles and prophecy are revived in him, as among the holy Apostles, and he has been bestirring himself to have a General Council of the Church to look into these matters.  When I left Florence, a short time ago, the faction opposed to him broke into the convent and took him away.  I myself was there.”

“What!” said Agnes, “did they break into the convent of the San Marco?  My uncle is there.”

“Yes, and he and I fought side by side with the mob who were rushing in.”

“Uncle Antonio fight!” said Agnes, in astonishment.

“Even women will fight, when what they love most is attacked,” said the knight.

He turned to her, as he spoke, and saw in the moonlight a flash from her eye, and an heroic expression on her face, such as he had never remarked before; but she said nothing.  The veil had been rudely torn from her eyes; she had seen with horror the defilement and impurity of what she had ignorantly adored in holy places, and the revelation seemed to have wrought a change in her whole nature.