Left to herself, she stood there a moment, allowed a sigh to escape her,
and brushed an angry tear from her brown eyes. Then, with a sudden
movement that seemed to imply suppression of her mood, she walked to the
door by which she entered, and left the chamber.

She went down the long gallery, whose walls glowed with the new frescoes
from the wonder-working brush of Andrea Mantegna; she crossed her ante-
chamber and gained the very room where some hours ago she had received
the insult of Gian Maria's odious advances. She passed through the now
empty room, and stepped out on to the terrace that overlooked the
paradise-like gardens of the Palace.

Close by the fountain stood a white marble seat, over which, earlier that
day, one of her women had thrown a cloak of crimson velvet. There she
now sat herself to think out the monstrous situation that beset her. The
air was warm and balmy and heavy with the scent of flowers from the
garden below. The splashing of the fountain seemed to soothe her, and
for a little while her eyes were upon that gleaming water, which rose
high in a crystal column, then broke and fell, a shower of glittering
jewels, into the broad marble basin. Then, her eyes growing tired, they
strayed to the marble balustrade, where a peacock strode with overweening
dignity; they passed on to the gardens below, gay with early blossoms, in
their stately frames of tall, boxwood hedges, and flanked by myrtles and
tall cypresses standing gaunt and black against the deep saffron of the
vesper sky.

Saving the splashing of the fountain, and the occasional harsh scream of
the peacock, all was at peace, as if by contrast with the tumult that
raged in Valentina's soul. Then another sound broke the stillness--a
soft step, crunching the gravel of the walk. She turned, and behind her