“Ah, that I should, dame, if you could spare me.”

“Child,” replied the matron, solemnly, “my sand is nearly run, and my wish is to see thee placed with one who will nurture thy young years, and save thee from a life of licence.  That done, I may fulfil my vow, and devote the desolate remnant of my years to God.  I will think more of this, my child.  Not under such a plebeian’s roof shouldst thou have lodged, nor from a stranger’s board been fed:  but at Rome, my last relative worthy of the trust is dead;—­and at the worst, obscure honesty is better than gaudy crime.  Thy spirit troubles me already.  Back, my child; I must to my closet, and watch and pray.”

Thus saying, the old woman, repelling the advance, and silencing the muttered and confused words, of the boy—­half affectionate as they were, yet half tetchy and wayward—­glided from the chamber.

The boy looked abstractedly at the closing door, and then said to himself—­“The dame is always talking riddles:  I wonder if she know more of me than she tells, or if she is any way akin to me.  I hope not, for I don’t love her much; nor, for that matter, anything else.  I wish she would place me with the Tribune’s lady, and then we’ll see who among the lads will call Angelo Villani bastard.”

With that the boy fell to work again at his sword with redoubled vigour.  In fact, the cold manner of this female, his sole nurse, companion, substitute for parent, had repelled his affections without subduing his temper; and though not originally of evil disposition, Angelo Villani was already insolent, cunning, and revengeful; but not, on the other hand, without a quick susceptibility to kindness as to affront, a natural acuteness of understanding, and a great indifference to fear.  Brought up in quiet affluence rather than luxury, and living much with his protector, whom he knew but by the name of Ursula, his bearing was graceful, and his air that of the well-born.  And it was his carriage, perhaps, rather than his countenance, which, though handsome, was more distinguished for intelligence than beauty, which had attracted the notice of the Tribune’s bride.  His education was that of one reared for some scholastic profession.  He was not only taught to read and write, but had been even instructed in the rudiments of Latin.  He did not, however, incline to these studies half so fondly as to the games of his companions, or the shows or riots in the street, into all of which he managed to thrust himself, and from which he had always the happy dexterity to return safe and unscathed.

The next morning Ursula entered the young Angelo’s chamber.  “Wear again thy blue doublet today,” said she; “I would have thee look thy best.  Thou shalt go with me to the palace.”

“What, today?” cried the boy joyfully, half leaping from his bed.  “Dear dame Ursula, shall I really then belong to the train of the great Tribune’s lady?”

“Yes; and leave the old woman to die alone!  Your joy becomes you,—­but ingratitude is in your blood.  Ingratitude!  Oh, it has burned my heart into ashes—­and yours, boy, can no longer find a fuel in the dry crumbling cinders.”