How many times in the last ten years had she been pregnant! And each one left her a little weaker and a little less able to endure the next. Yet never had she felt so ill as she did now. She was growing old, although at times she still looked like a girl, for she had remained slender and her face had never lost its look of innocence. She had remained serene, accepting her fate since the day Alfonso had brought her back to Ferrara and had told her so clearly that her future depended on her ability to do her duty. Little Ippolito had been born after that, and Alfonso was not displeased. Two sons now for Ferrara. Young Ercole had continued healthy. What pleasure there had been in the children! They had provided all the happiness of the last years. Alfonso’s pre-occupation with the wars which had at one time threatened Ferrara had kept him away from her for so long that after Ippolito there was no other child until little Alexander was born. Poor Alexander, that ill-fated name! The first of her children by Alfonso had been Alexander who had lived less than two months; her second Alexander had died at the age of two years, which was even more heartbreaking.
