The Convent of the Flaming Heart was situated upon a hillock, a few miles to the west of the Eternal City—a beautiful white building, surrounded by vineyards.

The driver urged the horses upward the narrow path that led to the stone gate.

“Is Salome here?” I whispered to Kotikokura.

He nodded.

‘Salome a nun—in a convent,’ I mused, smiling. ‘But not half so strange as the fact that Cartaphilus and Kotikokura are nuns!’ I looked at Kotikokura and it was with the utmost difficulty that I restrained myself from bursting into hilarious laughter.

We descended from the carriage. The driver opened the gate. A nun approached.

“The Mother Superior awaits you.”

We walked in silence in the large garden and were led into a waiting-room.

“The Reverend Lady will be here presently.”

A small door, almost that of a cell, opened to our right and Salome appeared. She raised her eyes and made the sign of the cross.

“Salome!” I exclaimed.

She placed her forefinger to her lips.

“In my cell, we shall be able to speak without being overheard. Follow me!”

Her cell was a large room whose window faced the Tiber. A crucifix of excellent workmanship hung from one of the walls. Underneath it, several shelves crowded with books and manuscripts. At an angle, test tubes and other delicate instruments. Here and there, a flower vase, a statuette, a painting.

She closed the door behind us.

“Salome!” I exclaimed again. I pressed her to my heart.

“I am an Abbess, Cartaphilus, and you a nun. We should be colder and more distant in our dealings.”

She laughed a little.

“Salome an Abbess!” I laughed in my turn.

“It is not so strange, Cartaphilus. Since I cannot be Pope and rule mankind, I can at least rule my nuns and pursue my studies. The nuns are obedient. Unlike the Pope’s subjects they do not rebel. Many are intelligent and beautiful. Unsoiled by the rude hand of man, they tremble at my touch. Their cheeks blossom at a glance. If Eros visits their dreams, they consider themselves wicked sinners. They kneel before me, place their heads upon my knees, and weep. My hand comforts them…”

Salome closed a little her eyes, and remained silent for a while. “Besides,” she said smiling, “Holy Orders enabled me to reciprocate your courtesy. Without my assistance, you would have suffered some unpleasant experience.”

“How did you know of my presence in Rome?”

“How did you not know of mine?”

“Salome is incomparable always.”

“You ascribe my knowledge to feminine intuition, Cartaphilus?”

I smiled, for such a thought had flitted through my brain.

“If intuition knows more than reason, it is superior to reason,” I remarked.

“It was not intuition, but reason. You are incorrigible and unchangeable, Cartaphilus! You still consider woman only a little higher than the animals. Feminine intuition seems to you an impersonal, unreasoned thing, akin to animal instincts.”

I was about to object, but she raised her forefinger to her lips. ‘An Abbess,’ I thought, ‘but a remarkably charming one, nevertheless.’

“What you call feminine intuition is a more sublime form of reason. Woman omits several intermediary steps in the chain of reasoning and arrives at her conclusion more rapidly than man with his clumsy masculine intellect. Bewildered and piqued, man dubs the swift processes of her logical mind—intuition.”

“Salome is subtler than the Holy Father.”

“If the Holy Father had been a woman, he would not have excluded from his reasoning the possibility of your escape. His ‘intuition’ would have been disastrous for you.”

“How well for me, Madre Perfetta, that he is merely a man!”

Salome smiled and caressed my hands. “You must be hungry and thirsty.”

She offered me wines and sweets.

“But tell me explicitly, Salome, what happened? How were you able to rescue me?”

“There is less mystery in this than it seems and much more reason than instinct. I saw you ride through the city as an ancient knight, and if I had not seen you, I would have heard about it. Every one spoke of the strange visitor…”

I rubbed my hands, pleased at my prank, in spite of its aftermath.

“Cartaphilus is a child always, delighted with toys. I understood you desired to attract the attention of His Holiness. I knew a visit to Alexander would not pass without some unpleasantness. Your masculine conceit, intensified by your Jewish propensity for argumentation, would, I was certain, make you boast of matters whose secret only a woman knows how to keep.”

I smiled. “That’s contrary to the world’s opinion. A woman’s tongue– —”

Salome, irritated, interrupted me. “Well, I watched and listened closely. When I saw Kotikokura waiting for you at the gate of the Vatican, I knew that the moment for immediate action had arrived. Bribery discovered for me that you were to be tried as a Jew and a blasphemer. Bribery made it possible for Sister Kotikokura to visit you. Bribery allowed you to escape. Bribery will induce forgetfulness…”

“And the Pope? How is it that he was not present at the trial?”

“He was detained by a French Ambassador who recounted some magnificent anecdotes of intrigue and murder, but Alexander VI would have witnessed your torture. That would have interested him more than the Ambassador’s tales.”

“Salome, you are the Goddess of Wisdom and Beauty!” I knelt before her. She made the sign of the cross above my head.

“Salome, has not the time come for us to travel together? We can protect and comfort each other. Infinity is in sight. The parallel lines of our lives must join at last…”

She shook her head. “I must remain here for years, perhaps for centuries, under one guise or another. This place affords me silence and a sanctuary for meditation and for my experiments. I shall not be free until I liberate my sex from the slavery of the moon…”

I looked, not understanding, although I dimly remembered the remark of Gilles de Retz that Joan of Arc was not a slave of the moon.

“It is the moon’s tyranny that makes woman man’s inferior—the scarlet sacrifice the chaste goddess demands of every woman, whoever she may be—peasant, princess, or abbess. She accepts no scapegoat, she admits no ransom—save age. In pain and discomfiture, every daughter of Eve must pay bloody tribute to the moon’s cold and virginal majesty. Yes, before woman can be man’s equal—or his superior—we must overthrow the governance of the moon…!”

Her voice had an unusual pathos. For the first time, I realized to the full the tragedy of being a woman—the tragedy and the courage. I looked at Salome. Her face had the tenderness of a madonna.

“I understand,” I said.

“What?” Salome asked.

“I had not grasped your image at first, nor its profound significance.”

“Always the ponderous slowness of the male.”

“And…have your experiments been successful?”

“Partially only. I must combat not only a biological law, but woman’s ignorance and her fear. In spite of all I shall conquer! Woman shall be free! Woman shall be man’s equal! Then only will their union be beautiful and perfect; then only shall the love of Cartaphilus and Salome be consummated. No, my friend, I must remain. You, however, must go—and at once.”

“At once?”

She nodded. “This painting of the virgin hides a secret iron door. When it is opened, you will step into a boat always anchored there. Salome is a good general. She plans her retreat as carefully as her advance. The man who drove you here—deaf and dumb, and faithful as a dog—will row you across the Tiber. He will have food and clothing for you. You will be two small merchants traveling through the country. Disappear as quickly as possible from Rome and Italy. The Pope’s spies are already instructed to capture you. You have hurt the vanity of a Borgia, but we shall outwit him. The Borgias are, after all, mere children. Could they live as long as we—what prodigious monsters they might become, or who knows—what prodigious saints! However, we have no time to lose.”