"Having found me, Madonna, you will give me leave to go," said I.
But she was resolutely barring my way. A slow smile parted her scarlet
lips and broke over that ivory countenance that once I had deemed so lovely
and now I loathed.
"I mind me another occasion in a garden betimes one morning when you were
in no such haste to shun me."
I crimsoned under her insolent regard. "Have you the courage to remember?"
I exclaimed.
"Half the art of life is to harbour happy memories," said she.
"Happy?" quoth I.
"Do you deny that we were happy on that morning?--it would be just about
this time of year, two years ago. And what a change in you since then!
Heigho! And yet men say that woman is inconstant!"
"I did not know you then," I answered harshly.
"And do you know me now? Has womanhood no mysteries for you since you
gathered wisdom in the wilderness?"
I looked at her with detestation in my eyes. The effrontery, the ease and
insolence of her bearing, all confirmed my conviction of her utter
shamelessness and heartlessness.
"The day after...after your husband died," I said, "I saw you in a dell
near Castel Guelfo with my Lord Gambara. In that hour I knew you."
She bit her lip, then smiled again. "What would you?" answered she.
"Through your folly and crime I was become an outcast.
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