Down in my heart I laughed to scorn my own wild musings.

Cesare Borgia would come to know--he must, whether Ramiro told him, or whether he inferred it for himself from the account Ramiro must give him of our meeting--how I had thwarted him in one thing, whilst I had served him in another.

Fate was against me.

I had fallen too low to ever rise again, and no dreams indulged in a sunset hour, and inspired, perhaps, by a child who was beautiful as one of the saints of God, would ever come to be realised by poor Boccadoro.
Night was falling as we clattered through the slippery streets of Fossombrone..