slept always.  I saw Virginia kiss his forehead.  Then she came winging back to me; she seemed hardly to touch the pavement.  “Come, come.  I know the way.  The door is open.”  She flitted away towards the high altar, I following.  We gained the ambulatory behind.  A door from this stood ajar; Virginia pushed in, I after her.  We followed a flagged corridor for some distance and found ourselves in the Sagrestia Nuova with Michael Angelo’s monsters sprawling and brooding in the half light.  Virginia clasped me in her arms.  “Francesco mio, I have saved thee.  Sanctuary with thee!  Oh, love thy poor Virginia!”

She pressed closely to me, and began to touch and stroke my cheeks; she put her hand at the back of my head, as it were to force my face down to look at her.  Touched, excited, amorous in my turn, I encircled her with my arms and kissed her fondly.

“Dearest, best, kindest Virginia,” I said, “you have proved my friend indeed.  I have much to thank you for, much to say to you.  Let us choose a place in which to eat our breakfast; I am as hungry as the devil.”

Cruel, abominable speech of mine!  I wounded her dreadfully; scalding tears testified to a bruised heart; but to her relief came pride.

“Stop,” said she, “you shall not eat yet.  I am hungrier than you, whom bread will satisfy.  I am famished.”  I would have made amends, but she drew away from me, and folded her arms.  “Let me understand.  You kissed me just now.  Were you false to Aurelia?  Did you intend to insult that girl whom you taught to fear insult?”

I said, No, that had never been my intention, but it had been quite otherwise.  “Donna Aurelia,” I said, “has been restored to her proper place.  She will find salvation where her happiness is, and I have been considering mine, whether I can find it in my happiness also.”

“One thing at a time,” said she, breathing very fast.  “Has Donna Aurelia’s husband returned?” I told her that he had not, but that there were good hopes of him shortly.

“And you have said farewell?  You are free—­free as the air?”

“It is my duty,” I told her, “never to see Donna Aurelia again, and I will not if I can help it.”

She frowned, then threw up her hands.  “I don’t understand anything about you!  Is this love or madness?  You love a lady, who loves you—­you find her here—­alone—­you meet—­you speak—­you look at each other—­you take her by the hand and lead her back to her husband—­and tell her that she will never see you again.  And she allows it!”

“Not only so,” said I, “but it was she who turned her back upon me.  And she did rightly.”

“Why did she so?” she asked me.  I had to tell her that it was on her account.

It made her peer with her eyes, in which, however, a keen light burned.  She took a step towards me; I thought she would be in my arms; but instead she stopped short, breathing fast through her nostrils.