tidings of the unhappy boy's death, my spirit fails me. Such a
being would run a carving-knife into you, as you slept, without
any compunction, and when you squeaked, she would laugh. Look at
her base ingratitude to the good Hamdi Effendi, who took her in
before she was born and has treated her as a daughter all her
life. No: her spiritual attitude all through has been that of
the ladies who used to visit St. Anthony--in the leisure moments
when they were not actively engaged in temptation. I don't
believe her father was an English vice-consul. He was Satan.

I wonder what she told Mrs. McMurray.

I have been thinking over the matter to-night. The good lady was
wrong. Whatever were the morals of the Renaissance,
personalities were essentially positive. They were devilishly
wicked or angelically good. There was nothing _rosse_, non-moral
about the Renaissance Italian. The women were strongly tempered.
I love to believe the story told by Machiavelli and Muratori of
Catherine Sforza in the citadel of Forli. "Surrender or we slay
your children which we hold as hostages," cried the besiegers.
"Kill them if you like. I can breed more to avenge them." It is
the speech of a giant nature. It awakens something enthusiastic
within me; although such a lady would be an undesirable helpmeet
for a mild mannered man like myself.

And then again there is Bonna, the woman for whose career I
desired to consult the prime authority Cristoforo da Costa. I
have been sketching her into my chapter tonight. Here is a
peasant girl caught up to his saddle-bow by a condottiere,
Brunoro, during some village raid. She fights like a soldier by