Leonora D'Orco. G. P. R. James

you never told me, when your grandfather engaged us to go there too," said Leonora; "but how will the King of France be pleased?"

      "He has given permission," answered Lorenzo; "he understands well that the son of Carlo Visconti could only enter Milan in one manner."

      The young girl bent her head, and only answered, in a low tone, "I would fain hear more. It seems to me a strange arrangement."

      "You shall hear all, at some other time and place, Signora Leonora," replied Lorenzo: "every minute I expect the trumpets to sound to horse; and my tale, which is a sad one, should have some quiet spot for the telling, and evening skies, and few listeners near."

      The listeners, indeed, were, or might be, too many in a place where all was suspicion and much was danger. Every instant some one was passing near them--either one of the pastoral gentry who had waited for the meeting of the two courts, or some one from the suites of the two princes.

      The latter part of the lad's reply seemed at once to awaken Leonora to the necessity of caution. Her younger companion, indeed, who seemed ignorant of her cousin's early history, pressed him with girlish eagerness to tell all then and there; but the other, who even then knew more of Italian life--not without an effort, yet with much delicacy of judgment and feeling--directed their conversation into other channels, and soon brought back the gaiety and the sparkle which at that time was cultivated almost as an art by the higher classes of Italy. Speedily thought, and sentiment, and mood followed the course of even such light things as words: serious topics and dark remembrances, and even present dangers and discomforts, were forgotten;--and, as if in order to give relief to the lights in the future of life some dark shades were needed--the young three there gathered appeared to find in the faint allusion made to more painful things an accession of gaiety and enjoyment. The strangeness of first acquaintance was cast away between the two who had never met before. Bianca Maria, or Blanche Marie, as the French would have termed her, forgot how long a time had passed since she had seen her cousin, and all for the time was once more joy and light-hearted merriment. The same spirit seemed to pervade the whole party there assembled. It is hard to say seemed, for any eye that gazed upon that scene would have boldly concluded that all was peace and joy.

      Oh, false word! Oh, false seeming! There was doubt, and fear, and malevolence, and treachery there in many a heart; and of all the groups into which those two gay courts had separated themselves, perhaps reality, and enjoyment, and careless mirth were more truly to be found among those three young people, who, forgetful of courtly ceremony, had taken their seats beneath the trees on the west of the knoll, with their backs turned toward the royal and princely personages present. They, at least, knew how to enjoy the hour; and there let us leave them, with the benediction and applause of Lorenzo the Magnificent upon them:

       "Quant' e bella giovinezza

       Che si fugge tuttavia

       Chi vuol esser lietto, sia

       Di doman non c'e certezza."

      CHAPTER III.

      If the world be a stage, as the greatest of earth's poets has said, and all the men and women in it merely players, human life divides itself not only into acts, but scenes. The drop curtain falls for a longer or a shorter period; and, without whistle or call, the place is shifted, and the interval is filled up with nought which affects the actors before the public, or the general course of their own parts, or the end of the great drama played. Let us pass over the mere shiftings of the scene; the pompous reception of Charles VIII. in Milan; the time he wasted there in youthful merriment and courtly gallantry; the intrigues ending in nothing which went on during his stay in the Lombard capital; all the French gaietè de coeur with which the dashing and daring warriors of the most charming land in the world cut a throat, or make love, or stake a fortune on a card--let us pass them all by, with the exception of one slight incident, which had some influence upon the fate of one of our principal characters.

      It is very customary--indeed, it is always customary with men of impulse, especially when the impulses are impetuous and ill-regulated--for persons possessing great power to be awed, as it were, for a short time by the terrible responsibilities of their position--to seek uninterrupted thought, with an endeavour in their own mind to find support under the weight from their own intellect, or, frustrated in their dependence upon so frail a reed, to apply to a higher guide, who can give not only direction but strength--not only counsel but capability. There is many an occasion in which the most self-relying and resolute feels the need of an intelligence higher than his own, and a force beyond the force of his own character.

      In many respects the character of Charles VIII. was to be admired. His expedition to Italy was rash, ill-conceived, and ill-executed; but the conception was great, the objects when rightly viewed, noble, and the result, though not fortunate, such as showed in the young king the higher qualities of fortitude, resolution, and that courage which crushes obstacles by boldly confronting them. But many a time Charles doubted of his own course--only, indeed, in times of success and seeming prosperity--and asking himself whether that course was right, was prudent, was wise, sought guidance and instruction from on high.

      On these occasions he avoided all companionship, and asked direction from the throne of wisdom in solitary prayer. It was thus he came forth in the early morning to the Church of St. Stephen, attended only by a single page, and habited plainly enough to attract no attention. He had entered the chapel of St. Ambrose, the patron saint of the city, and was in the very act of kneeling, when the voices of two other men, speaking somewhat loud in the general stillness, attracted his attention.

      "Ah!" said the one, "it was there he slew him, and had there been men to second him, Lombardy would have now been free."

      "It goes about the city," said the other, "that young Lorenzo, his son, is close at the gates of Milan, ready to avenge his father's death upon the Sforzeschi."

      "He had better look to his own safety," replied the first speaker, "for he has to do with powerful enemies, and what the strong hand and the sword cannot accomplish, the dagger or the cup can perchance perform."

      The king listened, but nothing more of interest met his ear, and when his prayer was finished he returned to his private cabinet, and wrote a few words in haste, without consulting even his most approved counsellors. It was done; and then he rang a little hand-bell on the table. It was not like a modern bell, being four-sided, but it had a good, loud sound, and it immediately brought an attendant from the ante-room.

      "Call hither the Baron de Vitry," said the king. He spoke of that De Vitry who was the ancestor of the well-known Marechal de Vitry, and who, a few days after, became Marquis de Vitry on the death of his father. "Tell him to be quick, for he sleeps late when there is no fighting to be done."

      The man hastened away to execute his commands, but it was some twenty minutes before the officer summoned appeared, and then, to say sooth, he was but imperfectly apparelled. There was a point here and there untrussed, and his collar was certainly not placed in its usual and intended position--indeed, some severe critics of costume might have supposed that it was turned wrong side before.

      "Always behind, De Vitry," said the monarch, who had grown impatient in waiting.

      "I was not behind at St. Aubin, sire," replied the young officer with a gay confidence; "but, sire, we were bound to sit up so late last night for the honour of France that our eyes had leaden weights upon them this morning."

      "Ay, a revel, of course," said the king; "too much revelling, De Vitry. We must think of more serious things."

      "Good faith! sire, we are all ready," replied the young officer; "we only revel because we have nought else to do. While your majesty and your wise counsellors are gravely deliberating in the cabinet, we have nought else to do but dance, and drink, and sing in the hall; and I am sure you, sire, would not have us behind the Italian in dancing and drinking, when they go so far before us in singing; but only give us something else to do, and we are ready to ride, or fight, or work in any way tomorrow."

      The young king mused for a moment, and