"Oh, that the Duchess were returned from Mantua," she sighed. "The good
Monna Elizabetta might melt you to some pity."

"Monna Elizabetta is too dutiful herself to do aught but urge you to
dutifulness. There, child," he added, in a more wheedling tone, "set
aside this disobedient mood, which is unlike you and becomes you ill.
You shall be wed with a splendour and magnificence that will set every
princess in Italy green with envy. Your dowry is set at fifty thousand
ducats, and Giuliano della Rovere shall pronounce the benediction.
Already I have sent orders to Ferrara, to the incomparable Anichino, for
the majestate girdle; I will send to Venice for gold leaf and----"

"But do you not heed me that I will not wed?" she broke in with
passionate calm, her face white, her bosom heaving.

He rose, leaning heavily upon a gold-headed cane, and looked at her a
moment without speaking, his brows contracted. Then:

"Your betrothal to Gian Maria is proclaimed," he announced in a voice
cold with finality. "I have passed my word to the Duke, and your
marriage shall take place so soon as he returns. Now go. Such scenes as
these are wearisome to a sick man, and they are undignified."

"But, your Highness," she began, an imploring note now taking the place
that lately had been held by defiance.

"Go!" he blazed, stamping his foot, and then to save his dignity--for he
feared that she might still remain--he himself turned on his heel and
passed from the apartment.