lected upon the husband. However, I can understand the feelings
of one who has been too much in the field to learn those innocent
new gallantries. Indeed, I presume that I should thank you for what
you believed to be a generous forbearance. But all this does not
find me my brother."

And with a sad, gentle smile Count Nicolotto closed his frosty eyes.

Cercamorte, despite all this cooing, received an impression of enmity.
As always when danger threatened, he became still and wary, much
more resourceful than ordinarily, as if perils were needed to render
him complete. Smoothing his vest with his fingers that were
flattened from so much sword-work, Lapo said:

"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out-of-date bunglers as I."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 perceiv