his side. He is imprisoned in Valencia by Alfonso of Naples,
languishes in a dungeon for ten years. And for ten years Bonna
goes from court to court in Europe and from prince to prince,
across seas and mountains, unwearying, unyielding, with the
passion of heaven in her heart and the courage of hell in her
soul, urging and soliciting her man's release. After ten long
years she succeeds. And then they are married. What were her
tumultuous feelings as she stood by that altar? The old
historian does not say; but the very glory of God must have
flooded her being when, in the silence of the bare church, the
little bell tinkled to tell her that the Host was raised, and her
love was made blessed for all eternity. And then she goes away
with him and fights in the old way by his side for fifteen years.
When he is killed, she languishes and dies within the year.
Porcelli sees them in 1455. Brunoro, an old, squinting,
paralysed man. Bonna, a little shrivelled, yellow old woman,
with a quiver on her shoulder, a bow in her hand; her grey hair
is covered by a helmet and she wears great military boots. The
picture is magical. There is infinite pathos in the sight of the
two withered, crippled, grotesque forms from which all the
glamour of manhood and beauty have departed, and infinite awe in
the thought of the holy communion of the unconquerable and
passionate souls. I wonder it has not come down to us as one of
the great love-stories of the world.

Elements such as these sway the Morals of the Renaissance.

But I am taking Mrs. McMurray too seriously; and it is really not
a bad idea to have Carlotta taught type-writing.