“Sooth to say, Margery, my confessor, to whom—­albeit with bitter pains—­I am laying open every fold of my heart—­yes, Margery, if Ann’s cradle had been graced with a coat of arms matters would be otherwise.  But to call a copper-smith father-in-law, and little Henneleinlein Madame Aunt!  In church, to nod from the old seats of the Schoppers to all those common folk as my nearest kin, to meet the lute-player among my own people, teaching the lads and maids their music, and to greet him as dear grandfather, to see my brethren and sisters-in-law busy in the clerks’ chambers or work-shops—­all this I say is bitter to the taste; and yet more when the tempter on the other side shows the gaudy young gentleman the very joys dearest to his courtly spirit.  And with what eloquence and good cheer has Father Ignatius set all this before mine eyes here in Paris, doubtless with honest intent; and he spoke to my heart soberly and to edification, setting forth all that the precepts of the Lord, and my old and noble family required of me.

“Much less than all this would have overruled so feeble a wight as I am.  I promised Father Ignatius to give up Ann, and, on my home-coming, to submit in all things to my uncle and to agree with him as to what each should yield up and renounce to the other—­as though it were a matter of merchandise in spices from the Levant, or silk kerchiefs from Florence; and thereupon the holy Friar gave me his benediction, as though my salvation were henceforth sure in this world and the next.

“I rode forth with him even to the gate, firm in the belief that I had thrown the winning number in life’s game; but scarce had I turned my horse homeward when I wist that I had cast from me all the peace and joy of my soul.

“It is done.  I have denied Ann—­given her up forever—­and whereas she must one day hear it, be it done at once.  You, my poor Margery, I make my messenger.  I have tried, in truth, to write to Ann, but it would not do.  One thing you must say, and that is that, even when I have sinned most against her, I have never forgotten her; nay, that the memory of that happy time when she was fain to call herself my Laura moved me to ride forth to Treviso, where, in the chapel of the Franciscan Brethren, there may be seen a head of the true Laura done by the limner Simone di Martino, the friend of Petrarca, a right worthy work of art.  Methought she drew me to her with voice and becks.  And yet, and yet—­woe, woe is me!

“My pen has had a long rest, for meseemed I saw first Petrarca’s lady with her fair braids, and then Ann with her black hair, which shone with such lustrous, soft waves, and lay so nobly on the snow-white brow.  Her eyes and mien are verily those of Laura; both alike pure and lofty.  But here my full heart over-flows; it cannot forget how far Ann exceeds Laura in sweet woman’s grace.

“Day is breaking, and I can but sigh forth to the morning:  ’Lost, lost!  I have lost the fairest and the best!’