He proffered his letters as he spoke, and Giovanni, whose brow had grown overcast, took them with a hand that seemed reluctant.  Then bidding the servant see to the courier’s refreshment, he dismissed them both.

A moment he stood, balancing the parchments a if from their weight he would infer the gravity of their contents; and the affairs of Boccadoro were, there and then, forgotten by us all.  For the thought that rose uppermost in our minds—­saving always that of Madonna Lucrezia—­was that these communications concerned the sheltering of Madonna Paola, and were a command for her immediate return to Rome.  At last Giovanni handed his wife the letter intended for her, and, in silence, broke the seal of his own.

He unfolded it with a grim smile, but scarce had he begun to read when his expression softened into one of terror, and his face grew ashen.  Next it flared crimson, the veins on his brow stood out like ropes, and his eyes flashed furiously upon Madonna Lucrezia.  She was reading, her bosom rising and falling in token of the excitement that possessed her.

“Madonna,” he cried in an awful voice, “I have here a command from the Holy See to repair at once to Rome, to answer certain charges that are preferred against me relating to my marriage.  Madonna, know you aught of this?”

“I know, sir,” she answered steadily, “that I, too, have here a letter calling me to Rome.  But there is no reason given for the summons.”

Intuitively it flashed across my mind that whatever the matter might be, Madonna Lucrezia had full knowledge of it through the letter I had brought her from her brother.

“Can you conjecture, Madonna, what are these charges to which my letter vaguely alludes?” Giovanni was inquiring.

“Your pardon, but the subject is scarcely of a nature to permit discussion in the castle courtyard.  Its character is intimate.”

He looked at her very searchingly, but for all that he was a man of almost twice her years, her wits were more than a match for his, and his scrutiny can have told him nothing.  She preserved a calm, unruffled front.

“In five minutes, Madonna,” said he, very sternly, “I shall be honoured if you will receive me in your closet.”

She inclined her head, murmuring an unhesitating assent.  Satisfied, he bowed to her and to Madonna Paola—­who had been looking on with eyes that wonder had set wide open—­and turning on his heel he strode briskly away.  As he passed into the castle, Madonna Lucrezia heaved a sigh and rose.

“My poor Boccadoro,” she cried, “I fear me your affairs must wait a while.  But think of me always as your friend, and believe that if I can prevail upon my brother to overlook the ill-turn you did him when you entered the service of this child”—­and she pointed to Madonna Paola—­“I shall send for you from Rome, for in Pesaro I fear you have little to hope for.  But let this be a secret between us.”