Count me your very slave, Madonna." She looked at him now, and in his countenance she saw a reflection of the ardour that had spoken in his voice.

In his eyes there was a glance of burning intensity.

She drew away from him, and at first he accounted himself repulsed, but pointing to the space she had left: "Sit here beside me, Gonzaga," she said quietly, and he, scarce crediting his own good fortune that so much favour should be showered upon him, obeyed her in a half-timid fashion that was at odd variance with his late bold words.
He laughed lightly, perhaps to cover the embarrassment that beset him, and dropping his jewelled cap, he flung one white-cased leg over the other and took his lute in his lap, his fingers again wandering to the strings.
"I have a new song, Madonna," he announced, with a gaiety that was obviously forced.

"It is in ottava rima, a faint echo of the immortal Niccolo Correggio, composed in honour of one whose description is beyond the flight of human song." "Yet you sing of her ?" "It is no better than an acknowledgment of the impossibility to sing of her.

Thus----" And striking a chord or two, he began, a mezza voce: "Quando sorrideran' in ciel Gli occhi tuoi ai santi--" She laid a hand upon his arm to stay him.
"Not now, Gonzaga," she begged, "I am in no humour for your song, sweet though I doubt not that it be." A shade of disappointment and ruffled vanity crossed his face.