And so, eyes that were brown and tender looked down into feverish languid eyes of black, what time her gentle hand held the moist cloth to his aching brow.
"Angel of beauty!" he murmured dreamily, being but half-awake as yet to his position.

Then, becoming conscious of her ministrations, "Angel of goodness!" he added, with yet deeper fervour.
She had no answer for him, saving such answer--and in itself it was eloquent enough--as her blushes made, for she was fresh from a convent and all innocent of worldly ways and tricks of gallant speech.
"Do you suffer ?" she asked at last.
"Suffer ?" quoth he, now waking more and more, and his voice sounding a note of scorn.

"Suffer?
My head so pillowed and a saint from Heaven ministering to my ills?
Nay, I am in no pain, Madonna, but in a joy more sweet than I have ever known." "Gesu! What a nimble tongue!" gibed the fool from the background.
"Are you there, too, Master Buffoon ?" quoth Francesco.

"And Fanfulla?
Is he not here?
Why, now I bethink me; he went to Acquasparta with the friar." He thrust his elbow under him for more support.
"You must not move," said she, thinking that he would essay to rise.
"I would not, lady, if I must," he answered solemnly.

And then, with his eyes upon her face, he boldly asked her name.
"My name," she answered readily, "is Valentina della Rovere, and I am niece to Guidobaldo of Urbino." His brows shot up.
"Do I indeed live," he questioned, "or do I but dream the memories of some old romancer's tale, in which a wandering knight is tended thus by a princess ?" "Are you a knight ?" she asked, a wonder coming now into her eyes, for even into the seclusion of her convent-life had crept strange stories of these mighty men-at-arms.
"Your knight at least, sweet lady," answered he, "and ever your poor champion if you will do me so much honour." A crimson flush stole now into her cheeks, summoned by his bold words and bolder glances, and her eyes fell.