He seemed to quiver and then draw himself upright, whilst across his face
there swept a shade of something that may have been good or bad or partly
both. Then he leant down until his head came very near her own.

"Your friend?" quoth he. "Ah, more than your friend. 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?"