What prophetic instinct it was had rooted that certainty in my heart I do not pretend to say.
Perhaps my hope was of such a strength that it assumed the form of certainty to solace the period of my hermitage.

But that some day Madonna Paola's messenger would arrive bringing me the Borgia ring, I was as confident as that some day I must die.
Two years went by, and we were in the Autumn of 1502, yet my faith knew no abating, my confidence was strong as ever.

And, at last, that confidence was justified.

One night of early October, as I sat at supper with my mother after the labours of the day, a sound of hoofs disturbed the peace of the silent night.

It drew rapidly nearer, and long before the knock fell upon our door, I knew that it was the messenger from my lady.
My mother looked at me across the board, an expression of alarm overspreading her old face.