the midst of these a
flask of wine wreathed with bright autumnal flowers, and finally the
falcon, stuffed with cloves and spice, was cooked and served to eke out
the humble banquet.

When all was ready the lady and her companion entered the cottage, and
to Ser Federigo's dazzled gaze everything seemed transformed. The little
room became a stately banqueting-hall, the rustic chair on which his
lady sat was transformed into a throne, and the poor falcon seemed a
peacock or a bird of paradise.

When the repast was ended they rose and passed into the garden again,
and then Monna Giovanna spoke in this wise to her host: "Though you are
too courteous to show surprise that I come to you in this friendly
manner after we have been parted so many years, I know you must wonder
at my reason for doing so. You have no children, so you cannot know the
anguish a mother feels when her child is lying ill, nor how eager she is
to anticipate his every wish. My only child is dying, Ser Federigo, and
I have come to beg of you the one thing which may save his life. It is
your falcon, your only treasure, that I beseech you to give my child,
though it grieves me to the heart to demand such a precious gift from
your hands."

Ser Federigo listened with tears of love and pity in his eyes, then
sadly answered, "Alas, dear lady, how gladly would I have granted what
you ask had you but expressed this wish one short hour ago. But,
thinking I could best do honor to my guests by sacrificing what was most
dear to me, I slew my gallant falcon to provide you with a fitting
repast."

Slowly the lady turned aside her head, grieved to think that this noble
knight had slain his cherished falcon for her sake, and yet glad of this
proof of his devotion. But her mind was now filled with alarm, for she
must return empty-handed to her sick child; so, taking a hasty farewell
of their host, the ladies sadly made their way homewards.

The mother's fears were only too well founded. Three days later Ser
Federigo heard the tolling of the passing-bell from the chapel on the
hill, and, as he breathed a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead," he
murmured.

But happier times were in store for the bereaved lady and her faithful
lover. Touched by his devotion Monna Giovanna plighted her troth with
Ser Federigo, and by Christmas time the little farm was deserted, and a
wedding-feast was held in the grand villa on the hill. Once more Monna
Giovanna sat upon the rustic chair w