His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. She did not think for one moment what interpretation he might put upon the word “lover. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank.
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