stood the magnificent Gonzaga, a smile that at once reflected pleasure
and surprise upon his handsome face.

"Alone, Madonna?" he said, in accents of mild wonder, his fingers softly
stirring the strings of the lute he carried, and without which he seldom
appeared about the Court.

"As you see," she answered, and her tone was the tone of one whose
thoughts are taken up with other things.

Her glance moved away from him again, and in a moment it seemed as if she
had forgotten his presence, so absorbed grew the expression of her face.

But Gonzaga was not easily discouraged. Patience was the one virtue that
Valentina more than any woman--and there had been many in his young life
--had inculcated into a soul that in the main was anything but virtuous.
He came a step nearer, and leant lightly against the edge of her seat,
his shapely legs crossed, his graceful body inclining ever so slightly
towards her.

"You are pensive, Madonna," he murmured, in his rich, caressing voice.

"Why then," she reproved him, but in a mild tone, "do you intrude upon my
thoughts?"

"Because they seem sad thoughts, Madonna." he answered, glibly, "and I
were a poor friend did I not seek to rouse you out of them."

"You are that, Gonzaga?" she questioned, without looking at him. "You
are my friend?"