“I hardly know,” said Corona, with a doubtful smile.  “You could not do that.  But you may come and spend the day once—­in a week, perhaps.”

“We will arrange all that,” answered Giovanni, laughing.  “If you think I can exist by only seeing you once a week—­well, you do not know me.”

“We shall see,” returned Corona, laughing too.  “By the bye, how long have we been here?”

“I do not know,” said Giovanni; “but the view is magnificent, is it not?”

“Enchanting,” she replied, looking into his eyes.  Then suddenly the blood mounted to her cheeks.  “Oh, Giovanni,” she said, “how could I do it?”

“I should have died if you had not,” he answered, and clasped her once more in his arms.

“Come,” said she, “let us be going down.  It is growing late.”

When they reached the foot of the tower, they found the Prince walking the rampart alone.  Sister Gabrielle was afraid of the evening air, and had retired into the house.  Old Saracinesca faced them suddenly.  He looked like an old lion, his thick white hair and beard bristling about his dark features.

“My father,” said Giovanni, coming forward, “the Duchessa d’Astrardente has consented to be my wife.  I crave your blessing.”

The old man started, and then stood stock-still.  His son had fairly taken his breath away, for he had not expected the news for three or four months to come.  Then he advanced and took Corona’s hand, and kissed it.

“Madam,” he said, “you have done my son an honour which extends to myself and to every Saracinesca, dead, living, and to come.”

Then he laid Corona’s hand in Giovanni’s, and held his own upon them both.

“God bless you,” he said, solemnly; and as Corona bent her proud head, he touched her forehead with his lips.  Then he embraced Giovanni, and his joy broke out in wild enthusiasm.

“Ha, my children,” he cried, “there has not been such a couple as you are for generations—­there has not been such good news told in these old walls since they have stood here.  We will illuminate the castle, the whole town, in your honour—­we will ring the bells and have a Te Deum sung—­we will have such a festival as was never seen before—­we will go to Rome to-morrow and celebrate the espousal—­we will—­”

“Softly, padre mio,” interrupted Giovanni.  “No one must know as yet.  You must consider—­”

“Consider what? consider the marriage?  Of course we will consider it, as soon as you please.  You shall have such a wedding as was never heard of—­ you shall be married by the Cardinal Archpriest of Saint Peter’s, by the Holy Father himself.  The whole country shall ring with it.”

It was with difficulty Giovanni succeeded in calming his father’s excitement, and in recalling to his mind the circumstances which made it necessary to conceal the engagement for the present.  But at last the old man reluctantly consented, and returned to a quieter humour.  For some time the three continued to pace the stone rampart.