nnounce to them the truth of what had passed. Yet
what if I had done so? They would have accounted it but a new jest of
Boccadoro, the Fool, and one so ill-conceived that they might urge the
Lord Giovanni to have him whipped for it.

Aye, it would have been a folly, a futile act that would have earned me
unbelief, contempt and anger. And yet there was a moment when jealousy
urged me almost headlong to that rashness. For in Madonna Paola's
eyes there was a new expression as they rested on the face of Giovanni
Sforza--an expression that told me she had come to love this man whom a
little while ago she had despised.

God! was there ever such an irony? Was there ever such a paradox? She
loved him, and yet it was not him she loved. The man she loved was the
man who had shown the qualities of his mind in the verses with which the
Court was ringing; the man who had that morning given proof of his high
mettle and knightly prowess by the deeds of arms he had performed. I was
that man--not he at whom so adoringly she looked. And so--I argued, in
my warped way and with the philosophy worthy of a Fool--it was I
whom she loved, and Giovanni was but the symbol that stood for me. He
represented the songs and the deeds that were mine.

But if I did not throw wide that window and proclaim the fact to ears
that would have been deaf to the truth of them, what think you that I
did? I took a subtler vengeance. I repaired to my own chamber, procured
me pen and ink, and, there, with a heart that was brimming over with
gall, I penned an epic modelled upon the stately lines of Virgil,
wherein I sang the prowess of the Lord Giovanni Sforza, describing that
morning's mighty feat of arms, and detailing each particular of the
combat 'twixt Giovanni and Ramiro del' Orca.

It was a brave thing when it was done; a finer and worthier poetical
achievement than any that I had yet encompassed, and that night, after
they had supped, as merrily as though Duke Valentino had never been
heard of, and whilst they were still sitting at their wine, I got me a
lute and stole down to the banqueting hall.

I announced myself by leaping on a table and loudly twanging the strings
of my instrument. There was a hush, succeeded by a burst of acclamation.
They were in a high good-humour, and the Fool with a new song was the
very thing they craved.

When silence was restored I began, and whilst my fingers moved
sluggishly across the strings, striking here and there a