And had I not deserved it?  Why had I not crept back into Lucca—­in any disguise, by any subterfuge—­when I was driven out?  Why had I not braved a second disgrace—­nay, imprisonment, stripes, even death, on Virginia’s account?  Alas, it was because Virginia’s account was not heavy enough in my books.  Pass that, and have at me again.  Why, when I knew her whereabouts, did I not strike off across the hills to find her?  Was it that she would not have welcomed me naked, have cherished me dying, have died herself to save me?  Alas, no!  It was because I had been drawn on to Siena by that lovely, haunting, beckoning, beguiling vision of Aurelia, my torture and stem of shame.  Why, finally, were my eyes not lifted up to her wistful eyes, as she sat—­poor sempstress—­in that upper room?  It was because of my accursed prosperity.  It was because my eyes were cased and swollen in pride; because my fine horse held them; because I thought I had but to nod and be obeyed by—­my wife!  Thy wife, sayest thou, Francis?  Nay, wretched fool, but thy slave!  Out upon thee—­out!

White and suffering, not knowing what to do, I sat by my untasted board and gave the letter into Belviso’s hand to read.  He read it carefully, and Fra Palamone peeped over his shoulder.  He was the first to speak.

He clacked his tongue to his palate—­that gross and forcible rogue; he looked all about him with his arms spread abroad, as if he were scouring the air to find Virginia.  “She’s off,” he said, “she’s off, that’s plain.  Bolted like a coney to the hills.  Now, who’s our man?”

I struck my breast.  “It is I, Fra Palamone.  I am her man.”

He inspected me for half a moment, as if to judge of the possibility; but took no further notice of me.  He walked to the window and looked out—­up and down the street.  “Clean heels,” says he, “and she was within reach of my hand.”

“What!” I cried.  “It was she who——­” I did not finish but rushed at the door.  Belviso, divining my insane purpose, caught me by the coat.

“Stay, Don Francis—­let any one go but you.”  Seeing that I paused irresolute, he went on to urge me by all that I held dear to do nothing so foolish.  “Do you suppose,” he said, “that you will find her—­knowing nothing of Arezzo—­and she knowing all?  Do you think her so light, that, having borne the first sight of you already without faltering, she will fall to you at the second?  You have taught me wiselier about her out of your own mouth.  Let us question the friar.”  He turned to Palamone, who had his mouth open and was scratching in his beard.