“Right false and treacherous and disloyal are you to make such a pretence of affection, who yet have never loved me truly one single day.  All these years of our wedded life I have been foolish enough to believe, what you took such pains in the telling, that you loved me with a loyal heart.  To-day I see plainly that I was the more deceived.”

“In what are you deceived?” inquired the Duke.

“By my faith,” cried she, who was sick of her desire, “you warn me that I be not so bold as to ask aught of that of which you know the secret.”

“In God’s name, sweet wife, of what would you know?”

“Of all that he has told you, the lies and the follies he has put in your mind, and led you to believe.  But it matters little now whether I hear it or not, for I remember how small is my gain in being your true and loving wife.  For good or for ill I have shown you all my counsel.  There was nothing that was known and seen of my heart that you were not told at once; and of your courtesy you repay me by concealing your mind.  Know, now, without doubt, that never again shall I have in you such affiance, nor grant you my love with such sweetness, as I have bestowed them in the past.”

Thereat the Duchess began to weep and sigh, making the most tender sorrow that she was able.  The Duke felt such pity for her grief that he said to her,

“Fairest and dearest, your wrath and anger are more heavy than I can bear; but learn that I cannot tell what you wish me to say without sinning against my honour too grievously.”

Then she replied forthwith,

“Husband, if you do not tell me, the reason can only be that you do not trust me to keep silence in the business.  I wonder the more sorely at this, because there is no matter, either great or small, that you have told me, which has been published by me.  I tell you honestly that never in my life could I be so indiscreet.”

When she had said this, she betook her again to her tears.  The Duke kissed and embraced her, and was so sick of heart that strength failed him to keep his purpose.

“Fair wife,” he said to her, “by my soul I am at my wits’ end.  I have such trust and faith in you that I deem I should hide nothing, but show you all that I know.  Yet I dread that you will let fall some word.  Know, wife—­and I tell it you again—­that if ever you betray this counsel you will get death for your payment.”

The Duchess made answer,

“I agree to the bargain, for it is not possible that I should deal you so shrewd a wrong.”

Then he who loved her, because of his faith and his credence in her word, told all this story of his niece, even as he had learned it from the knight.  He told how those two were alone together in the shadow of the wall, when the little dog ran to them.  He showed plainly of that coming forth from the chamber, and of the entering in; nothing was hid, he concealed naught of that he had heard and seen.  When the Duchess understood that the love of a mighty dame was despised for the sake of a lowly gentlewoman, her humiliation was bitter in her mouth as death.  She showed no semblance of despitefulness, but made covenant and promise with the Duke to keep the matter close, saying that should she repeat his tale he might hang her from a tree.