She was silent, and emboldened perhaps by that silence of hers, encouraged by the memory of what he had seen that morning reflected in her eyes: "Madonna," he cried, "I would it might be mine to cut a road for you through that besieging camp, and bear you away to some blessed place where there are neither courts nor princes.

But since this may not be, Madonna mia, I would that this siege might last for ever." And then--was it the night breeze faintly stirring through his hair that mocked him with the whisper, "So indeed would I ?" He turned to her, his hand, brown and nervous, fell upon hers, ivory-white, where it rested on the stone.
"Valentina!" he cried, his voice no louder than a whisper, his eyes ardently seeking her averted ones.

And then, as suddenly as it had leapt up, was the fire in his glance extinguished.

He withdrew his hand from hers, he sighed, and shifted his gaze to the camp once more.

"Forgive, forget, Madonna," he murmured bitterly, "that which in my madness I have presumed." Silent she stood for a long moment; then she edged nearer to him, and her voice murmured back: "What if I account it no presumption ?" With a gasp he swung round to face her, and they stood very close, glance holding glance, and hers the less timid of the two.