“I will do anything—­anything in the wide world!” said Cyrillon earnestly.  “Surely you know that!”

“Yes—­but you must not be too gentle with her!  I do not mean that you should be rough—­God forbid!—­but if you would speak to her with authority—­if you could tell her that she owes her life and her work to the world—­to God—­”

She broke off, not trusting herself to say more.  Cyrillon raised her hand to his lips.

“I understand!” he said.  “You know I have hesitated—­because—­I love her!  I cannot tell her not to grieve for her dead betrothed, when I myself am longing to take his place!”

The Princesse smiled through her tears.

“The position is difficult I admit!” she said, with a returning touch of playfulness—­“But the very fact of your love for her should give you the force to command her back to life.  Come!”

She took him into the darkened room where Angela lay—­inert, immovable, with always the same wide-open eyes, blank with misery and desolation, and said gently,

“Angela, will you speak to Gys Grandit?”

Angela turned her wistful looks upon him, and essayed a poor little ghost of a smile.  Very gently Cyrillon advanced and sat down beside her,—­and with equal gentleness, the Princesse D’Agramont withdrew.  Cyrillon’s heart beat fast; if he could have lifted that frail little form of a woman into his arms and kissed away the sorrow consuming it, he would have been happy,—­but his mission was that of a friend, not lover, and his own emotions made it hard for him to begin.  At last he spoke

“When are you going to make up your mind to get well, dear friend?”

She looked at him piteously.

“Make up my mind to get well?  I shall never be well again!”

“You will if you resolve to be,” said Cyrillon.  “It rests with you!”

She was silent.

“Have you heard the latest news from Rome?” he asked after a pause.

She made a faint sign in the negative.

Cyrillon smiled.

“The Church has with all due solemnity anathematized your picture as an inspiration of the Evil One!  But it is better that it should be so anathematized than that it should be reported as not your own work.  Between two lies, the emissaries of the Vatican have chosen the one least dangerous to themselves.”

Angela sighed wearily.

“You do not care?” queried Cyrillon.  “Neither anathema nor lie has any effect on you?”

She raised her left hand and looked dreamily at the circlet of rubies on it—­Florian Varillo’s betrothal ring.

“I care for nothing,” she said slowly.  “Nothing—­now he is gone!”

A bitter pang shot through Cyrillon’s heart.  He was quite silent.  Presently she turned her eyes wistfully towards him.

“Please do not think me ungrateful for all your kindness!—­but—­I cannot forget!”

“Dear Donna Sovrani, may I speak to you fully and, frankly—­as a friend?  May I do so without offence?”