“Oh, va bene, va bene, caro mio; we will talk no more about it.  Do you really agree to stay in the country all winter and give up Rome?”

“Of course,” he said, with the best grace in the world.  “It is all far too easy for me—­but for you!—­Ah, Leonora, no admiration, no new interest! no amusement! a year of your beauty wasted on only me.”

“Be still; you know very well that I care nothing for all that.  It is always this horrible fear of your leaping before you look.  Sandro, Sandro! can you really see that one more plunge—­and we are done?  Now we can give up our savings, and the jewels; another time—­don’t let there ever be another time!”

He looked up the road and down; there was not even a peasant in sight.  He put his arm about her and drew her to him.  “Look at me, Leonora!  On the name of my family and on that which I hold most sacred in the world I swear it:  you will never again have to suffer from such a cause.”

She inclined toward his kiss, and love dominated the sadness in her eyes.  Who could be angry with him—­impulsive, affectionate, warm-hearted child of the Sun, or Italy—­since both are the same.

A turn in the road, around a high wall topped with orange trees, brought them into the little town and the village life.  A couple of ragged urchins sitting before the door of one of the cave-like structures that are called dwellings, grinned as the princess looked at them.  An older girl bobbed a courtesy and pulled one of the children to her feet, bidding her do the same.  The men uncovered their heads, as the noble padrones passed.

Before one house the little trap stopped.  Immediately the door opened and a woman came out.  She was young and handsome though the shadow of maternity was blue-stenciled under her eyes.  She courtesied, then looked anxiously at the prince.

“Excellency would speak with me?” she asked, “has Excellency decided?”

“Yes,” the prince answered, “Pedro will wed thee at the house of the good father—­to-night at eight.”  At his first words she clasped her hands in thanksgiving, but when he continued that she was to wear no veil or wreath, her joy gave way to a wail.

“Excellency would shame me,” she sobbed, “I am a good girl and Pedro my husband by promise.”

Sansevero looked helpless for a moment and then seemed wavering.  The woman caught at the opportunity and repeated her cry, this time to the princess, but there was no indecision in the latter’s manner as she spoke now in her husband’s stead.

“Thou knowest, Marcella, that the veil and the wreath are only for such as are maidens!  Say no more, I speak not of goodness, Pedro comes to the house of the padre—­at eight.  Be a faithful wife and mother, and so shalt thou have honor—­better than by the wearing of a wreath.”

She put her hand on the girl’s head, with a kindness that took away all sting from her words.  And Marcella made no further protest, although as the pony-cart drove on, she remained weeping before the door.