He turned without awaiting my reply, and strode away to take his place at table, whilst I walked slowly to my accustomed seat, and took little part in the conversation that ensued, which, as you may imagine, had me and that exploit of mine for scope.

Anon an elephantine trumpeting of laughter seemed to set the air a-quivering.  Ramiro was lying back in his chair a prey to such a passion of mirth that it swelled the veins of his throat and brow until I thought that they must burst—­and, from my soul, I hoped they would.  Adown his rugged cheeks two tears were slowly trickling.  The Lord Filippo, as presently transpired, had been telling him of the epic I had written in praise of the Lord Giovanni’s prowess.  Naught would now satisfy that ogre but he must have the epic read, and Filippo, who had retained a copy of it, went in quest of it, and himself read it aloud for the delight of all assembled and the torture of myself who saw in Madonna Paola’s eyes that she accounted the deception I had practised on her a thing beyond pardon.

Filippo had a taste for letters, as I think I have made clear, and he read those lines with the same fire and fervour that I, myself, had breathed into them two years ago.  But instead of the rapt and breathless attention with which my reading had been attended, the present company listened with a smile, whilst ever and anon a short laugh or a quiet chuckle would mark how well they understood to-night the subtle ironies which had originally escaped them.

I crept away, sick at heart, while they were still making sport over my work, cursing the Lord Giovanni, who had forced me to these things, and my own mad mood that had permitted me in an evil hour to be so forced.  Yet my grief and bitterness were little things that night compared with what Madonna was to make them on the morrow.

She sent for me betimes, and I went in fear and trembling of her wrath and scorn.  How shall I speak of that interview?  How shall I describe the immeasurable contempt with which she visited me, and which I felt was perhaps no more than I deserved.

“Messer Biancomonte,” said she coldly, “I have ever accounted you my friend, and disinterested the motives that inspired a heart seemingly noble to do service to a forlorn and helpless lady.  It seems that I was wrong.  That the indulging of a warped and malignant spirit was the inspiration you had to appear to befriend me.”

“Madonna, you are over-cruel,” I cried out, wounded to the very soul of me.

“Am I so?” she asked, with a cold smile upon her ivory face.  “Is it not rather you who were cruel?  Was it a fine thing to do to trick a lady into giving her affection to a man for gifts which he did not possess?  You know in what manner of regard I held the Lord Giovanni Sforza so long as I saw him with the eyes of reason and in the light of truth.  And you, who were my one professed friend, the one man who spoke so loudly of