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that faint resemblance between them, yet that vivid contrast. There was Cesare fierce and frightening, determined to dominate, and Lucrezia slender and clinging, wishing to be dominated. Seeing them thus, all Alfonso’s doubts and suspicions returned, and he wanted to beg Lucrezia to leave this place which now seemed to him evil. He wanted to rescue Lucrezia who, although she was born of them, was not one of them; he wanted to take her right away from her family and live in peace with her.
    He heard their voices. “But you would not have me stand aside while others killed the bulls?”
    “I would. Indeed I would.”
    “But my dearest, you would then be ashamed of your brother.”
    “I should never be ashamed of you. And you risk your life with the bulls.”
    “Not I. I’m a match for any bull.”
    Cesare turned and drew her to him and over her head smiled for a second of triumphant mockery at Alfonso. Then he released her suddenly and cried: “But we have forgotten your little bridegroom, Lucrezia. I declare he looks as though he is about to burst into tears.”
    Alfonso felt the blood rush to his face. He started forward but Cesare stood between Lucrezia and her husband, legs apart, his hand playing with the hilt of his sword; and although Alfonso wanted to draw his own sword and challenge this man here and now to fight, and fight to the death if need be, he felt as though his limbs would not move, that he was in the presence of the devil, who had laid a spell upon him.
    Cesare laughed and went out; and when he was no longer there Alfonso’s courage came back to him. He went to Lucrezia and took her by the shoulders. “I like not his manners,” he said. Lucrezia’s eyes were wide and innocent. “He … he is too possessive. It is almost as though …” But he could not say it.He had not the courage. There were questions he wanted to ask, and he was afraid to ask them. He had been so happy, and he wanted to go on being happy.
    Lucrezia put her arms about his neck and kissed him in that gentle way which never failed to be a source of excitement to him.
    “He is my brother,” she said simply. “We were brought up together. We have shared our lives and it has made us good friends.”
    “It would seem when he is by that you are unaware of any other.”
    She laid her head against his chest and laughed. “You are indeed a jealous husband.”
    “Lucrezia,” he cried, “have I cause to be?”
    Then she lifted her face to his and her eyes were still full of limpid innocence. “You know I want no other husband,” she said. “I was unhappy, desperately unhappy, and I thought never to laugh in joy again. Then you came, and since you came, I have found happiness.”
    He kissed her with increasing passion. “Love me, Lucrezia,” he pleaded. “Love me … only.”
    They clung together, but even in the throes of lovemaking Alfonso could not rid himself of the memory of Cesare.

     
    Cesare was in the ring. The assembled company watched him with admiration, for he was the most able matador in Rome. His Spanish origin was obvious as, lithe and graceful, he twisted his elegant body this way and that, springing from the path of the onrushing bull at that precise moment in time when death seemed inevitable.
    Alfonso, sitting beside Lucrezia and watching her fingers twisting the embroideries on her dress, was aware of the anxiety she was experiencing. Alfonso did not understand. He could have sworn that she was glad because Cesare would soon be leaving for France; yet now, watching his antics in the bullring, he was equally sure that she was conscious of no one but her brother.
    Alfonso murmured: “God in Heaven, Holy Mother and all the saints, let him not escape. Let the furious bull be the instrument of justice—for many have died more horribly at his hands.”
    Smiling coolly Sanchia watched the man who had been her lover. She thought: I hope the bull gets him, tramples him beneath those angryhoofs … not to