"You are Lazzaro Biancomonte, of patrician birth, no matter to what odd shifts a cruel fortune may have driven you.

Will you take me ?" She had my face between her palms, and she forced my glance to meet her own saintly eyes.
"Will you take me, Lazaro ?" she repeated.
"Holy Flower of the Quince!" was all that I could murmur, whereat she gently smiled.

"Santo Fior di Cotogno!" And then a great sadness overwhelmed me.

A tide that neaped the frail bark of happiness high and dry upon the shores of black despair.
"To-morrow Madonna, comes the Lord Ignacio Borgia," I groaned.
"I know, I know," said she.

"But I have thought of that.