“Yes, my Juana,” cried Montefiore, softly, taking her round the waist and pressing her to his heart, “yes.  But let me speak to you as you speak to God.  Are you not as beautiful as Mary in heaven?  Listen.  I swear to you,” he continued, kissing her hair, “I swear to take that forehead for my altar, to make you my idol, to lay at your feet all the luxuries of the world.  For you, my palace at Milan; for you my horses, my jewels, the diamonds of my ancient family; for you, each day, fresh jewels, a thousand pleasures, and all the joys of earth!”

“Yes,” she said reflectively, “I would like that; but I feel within my soul that I would like better than all the world my husband.  Mio caro sposo!” she said, as if it were impossible to give in any other language the infinite tenderness, the loving elegance with which the Italian tongue and accent clothe those delightful words.  Besides, Italian was Juana’s maternal language.

“I should find,” she continued, with a glance at Montefiore in which shone the purity of the cherubim, “I should find in him my dear religion, him and God—­God and him.  Is he to be you?” she said.  “Yes, surely it will be you,” she cried, after a pause.  “Come, and see the picture my father brought me from Italy.”

She took a candle, made a sign to Montefiore, and showed him at the foot of her bed a Saint Michael overthrowing the demon.

“Look!” she said, “has he not your eyes?  When I saw you from my window in the street, our meeting seemed to me a sign from heaven.  Every day during my morning meditation, while waiting for my mother to call me to prayer, I have so gazed at that picture, that angel, that I have ended by thinking him my husband—­oh! heavens, I speak to you as though you were myself.  I must seem crazy to you; but if you only knew how a poor captive wants to tell the thoughts that choke her!  When alone, I talk to my flowers, to my tapestry; they can understand me better, I think, than my father and mother, who are so grave.”

“Juana,” said Montefiore, taking her hands and kissing them with the passion that gushed in his eyes, in his gestures, in the tones of his voice, “speak to me as your husband, as yourself.  I have suffered all that you have suffered.  Between us two few words are needed to make us comprehend our past, but there will never be enough to express our coming happiness.  Lay your hand upon my heart.  Feel how it beats.  Let us promise before God, who sees and hears us, to be faithful to each other throughout our lives.  Here, take my ring—­and give me yours.”

“Give you my ring!” she said in terror.

“Why not?” asked Montefiore, uneasy at such artlessness.

“But our holy father the Pope has blessed it; it was put upon my finger in childhood by a beautiful lady who took care of me, and who told me never to part with it.”

“Juana, you cannot love me!”

“Ah!” she said, “here it is; take it.  You, are you not another myself?”