“I feel now that I may have been wrong to put such shame upon him.  On account of it, no doubt, he has sought retirement.  Or maybe he has journeyed abroad, say to Provence, a land free from such out-of-date bunglers as I.”

Nicolotto Muti made a deprecatory gesture, then rose with a rustle of his green and yellow scallops, from which was shaken a fragrance of attar.

“My good friend, let us hope so.”

It was Foresto who, in the courtyard held Muti’s stirrup, and secretly pressed into the visitor’s hand a pellet of parchment.  For Foresto could write excellent Latin.

No sooner had Count Nicolotto regained his strong town than a shocking rumour spread round—­Lapo Cercamorte had made Raffaele Muti’s skin into a vest, with which to drive his wife mad.

In those petty Guelph courts, wherever the tender lore of Provence had sanctified the love of troubadour for great lady, the noblemen cried out in fury; the noblewomen, transformed into tigresses, demanded Lapo’s death.  Old Grangioia and his three sons arrived at the Muti fortress raving for sudden vengeance.  There they were joined by others, rich troubadours, backed by many lances, whose rage could not have been hotter had Lapo, that “wild beast in human form,” defaced the Holy Sepulchre.  At last the Marquis Azzo was forced to reflect: 

“Cercamorte has served me well, but if I keep them from him our league may be torn asunder.  Let them have him.  But he will die hard.”

Round the Big Hornets’ Nest the crows were thicker than ever.

* * * * *

One cold, foggy evening Lapo Cercamorte at last pushed open his wife’s chamber door.  Madonna Gemma was alone, wrapped in a fur-lined mantle, warming her hands over an earthen pot full of embers.  Standing awkwardly before her, Lapo perceived that her beauty was fading away in this unhappy solitude.  On her countenance was no trace of that which he had hoped to see.  He swore softly, cast down from feverish expectancy into bewilderment.

“No,” he said, at length, his voice huskier than usual, “this cannot continue.  You are a flower transplanted into a dungeon, and dying on the stalk.  One cannot refashion the past.  The future remains.  Perhaps you would flourish again if I sent you back to your father?”

He went to the casement with a heavy step, and stared through a rent in the oiled linen at the mist, which clung round the castle like a pall.

“Madonna,” he continued, more harshly than ever, in order that she might not rejoice at his pain, “I ask pardon for the poorness of my house.  Even had my sword made me wealthy I should not have known how to provide appointments pleasing to a delicate woman.  My manners also, as I have learned since our meeting, are unsuitable.  The camps were my school and few ladies came into them.  It was not strange that when Raffaele Muti presented himself you should have found him more to your taste.  But if on my sudden return I did what I did, and thus prevented him from boasting up and down Lombardy of another conquest, it was because I had regard not only for my honour, but for yours.  So I am not asking your pardon on that score.”