"Why do you speak thus to me? were you not a poet, I might be angry."

"You were not angry when the English poet, that cold Maltravers, spoke
to you perhaps as boldly."

Lady Florence drew up her haughty head. "Signor," said she, checking,
however, her first impulse, and with mildness, "Mr. Maltravers neither
flatters nor--"

"Presumes, you were about to say," said Cesarini, grinding his teeth.
"But it is well--once you were less chilling to the utterance of my deep
devotion."

"Never, Signor Cesarini, never--but when I thought it was but the common
gallantry of your nation: let me think so still."

"No, proud woman," said Cesarini, fiercely, "no--hear the truth."

Lady Florence rose indignantly.

"Hear me," he continued. "I--I, the poor foreigner, the despised
minstrel, dare to lift up my eyes to you! I love you!"

Never had Florence Lascelles been so humiliated and confounded. However
she might have amused herself with the vanity of Cesarini, she had not
given him, as she thought, the warrant to address her--the great Lady
Florence, the prize of dukes and princes--in this hardy manner; she
almost fancied him insane. But the next moment she recalled the warning
of Maltravers, and felt as if her punishment had commenced.