Leaving his attendant gentlemen in the antechamber, Albornoz was ushered into the apartment of the Signora Cesarini.  In person, the Cardinal was about the middle height; the dark complexion of Spain had faded by thought, and the wear of ambitious schemes, into a sallow but hardy hue; his brow was deeply furrowed, and though not yet passed the prime of life, Albornoz might seem to have entered age, but for the firmness of his step, the slender elasticity of his frame, and an eye which had acquired calmness and depth from thought, without losing any of the brilliancy of youth.

“Beautiful Signora,” said the Cardinal, bending over the hand of the Cesarini with a grace which betokened more of the prince than of the priest; “the commands of his Holiness have detained me, I fear, beyond the hour in which you vouchsafed to appoint my homage, but my heart has been with you since we parted.”

“The Cardinal d’Albornoz,” replied the Signora, gently withdrawing her hand, and seating herself, “has so many demands on his time, from the duties of his rank and renown, that methinks to divert his attention for a few moments to less noble thoughts is a kind of treason to his fame.”

“Ah, Lady,” replied the Cardinal, “never was my ambition so nobly directed as it is now.  And it were a prouder lot to be at thy feet than on the throne of St. Peter.”

A momentary blush passed over the cheek of the Signora, yet it seemed the blush of indignation as much as of vanity; it was succeeded by an extreme paleness.  She paused before she replied; and then fixing her large and haughty eyes on the enamoured Spaniard, she said, in a low voice,

“My Lord Cardinal, I do not affect to misunderstand your words; neither do I place them to the account of a general gallantry.  I am vain enough to believe you imagine you speak truly when you say you love me.”

“Imagine!” echoed the Spaniard.

“Listen to me,” continued the Signora.  “She whom the Cardinal Albornoz honours with his love has a right to demand of him its proofs.  In the papal court, whose power like his?—­I require you to exercise it for me.”

“Speak, dearest Lady; have your estates been seized by the barbarians of these lawless times?  Hath any dared to injure you?  Lands and titles, are these thy wish?—­my power is thy slave.”

“Cardinal, no! there is one thing dearer to an Italian and a woman than wealth or station—­it is revenge!”

The Cardinal drew back from the flashing eye that was bent upon him, but the spirit of her speech touched a congenial chord.

“There,” said he, after a little hesitation, “there spake high descent.  Revenge is the luxury of the well-born.  Let serfs and churls forgive an injury.  Proceed, Lady.”

“Hast thou heard the last news from Rome?” asked the Signora.

“Surely,” replied the Cardinal, in some surprise, “we were poor statesmen to be ignorant of the condition of the capital of the papal dominions; and my heart mourns for that unfortunate city.  But wherefore wouldst thou question me of Rome?—­thou art—­”