"
She took that backward mental glance he bade her, and remembered. Then
she remembered, too, how that very evening Francesco had said that he was
fretting for news of Babbiano, and that when she had asked how he hoped
that news could reach him at Roccaleone, Gonzaga had entered before he
answered her. Indeed, he had seemed to hesitate upon that answer. A
sudden chill encompassed her at that reflection. Oh, it was impossible,
absurd! And yet she took the letter from the table. With knit brows she
read it, whilst Gonzaga watched her, scarce able to keep the satisfaction
from gleaming in his eyes.
She read it slowly, and as she read her face grew deathly pale. When she
had finished she stood silent for a long minute, her eyes upon the
signature and her mind harking back to what Gonzaga had said, and drawing
comparison between that and such things as had been done and uttered, and
nowhere did she find the slightest gleam of that discrepancy which so
ardently she sought.
It was as if a hand were crushing the heart in her bosom. This man whom
she had trusted, this peerless champion of her cause, to be nothing but a
self-seeker, an intriguer, who, to advance his own ends, had made a pawn
of her. She thought of how for a moment he had held her in his arms and
kissed her, and at that her whole soul revolted against the notion that
here was no more than treachery.
"It's all a plot against him!" she cried, her cheeks scarlet again.
"It's an infamous thing of your devising, Messer Gonzaga, an odious lie!"
"Madonna, the man that brought the letter is still detained.
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