"I would not, lady, if I must," he answered solemnly. And then, with his
eyes upon her face, he boldly asked her name.

"My name," she answered readily, "is Valentina della Rovere, and I am
niece to Guidobaldo of Urbino."

His brows shot up.

"Do I indeed live," he questioned, "or do I but dream the memories of
some old romancer's tale, in which a wandering knight is tended thus by a
princess?"

"Are you a knight?" she asked, a wonder coming now into her eyes, for
even into the seclusion of her convent-life had crept strange stories of
these mighty men-at-arms.

"Your knight at least, sweet lady," answered he, "and ever your poor
champion if you will do me so much honour."

A crimson flush stole now into her cheeks, summoned by his bold words and
bolder glances, and her eyes fell. Yet, resentment had no part in her
confusion. She found no presumption in his speech, nor aught that a
brave knight might not say to the lady who had succoured him in his
distress. Peppe, who stood listening and marking the Count's manner,
knowing the knight's station, was filled now with wonder, now with
mockery; yet never interfered.

"What is your name, sir knight?" she asked, after a pause.

His eyes looked troubled, and as they shot beyond her to the fool, they