They were a gay company at supper in
consequence, and gayest of all was Messer Gonzaga, most bravely dressed
in a purple suit of taby silk to honour so portentous an occasion.
Francesco was the first to quit the table, craving Monna Valentina's
leave to be about some duty that took him to the walls. She let him go,
and afterwards sat pensive, nor heeded now Romeo's light chatter, nor yet
the sonnet of Petrarca that presently he sang the company. Her thoughts
were all with him that had left the board. Scarcely a word had she
exchanged with Francesco since that delirious moment when they had looked
into each other's eyes upon the ramparts, and seen the secret that each
was keeping from the other. Why had he not come to her? she asked
herself. And then she bethought her of how Gonzaga had all day long been
glued to her side, and she realised, too, that it was she had shunned
Francesco's company, grown of a sudden strangely shy.
But greater than her shyness was now her desire to be near him, and to
hear his voice; to have him look again upon her as he had looked that
morning, when in terror for him she had sought to dissuade him from
opposing the craven impulse of her men-at-arms. A woman of mature age,
or one riper in experience, would have waited for him to seek her out.
But Valentina, in her sweet naturalness, thought never of subterfuge or
of dalliant wiles. She rose quietly from the table ere Gonzaga's song
was done, and as quietly she slipped from the room.
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