They said good-night.  Madonna Gemma ascended to her chamber.

It was the horse-boy Foresto who, with a curious solicitude and satisfaction, lighted Raffaele Muti up to bed.

But old Baldo, strolling thoughtfully in the courtyard, caught a young cricket chirping in the grass between two paving-stones.  On the cricket’s back, with a straw and white paint, he traced the Muti device—­a tree transfixed by an arrow.  Then he put the cricket into a little iron box together with a rose, and gave the box to a man-at-arms, saying: 

“Ride to Lapo Cercamorte and deliver this into his hands.”

Next day, on the sunny tower, high above the hillside covered with spring flowers, Raffaele resumed his song.  He sat at the feet of Madonna Gemma, who wore a grass-green gown embroidered with unicorns, emblems of purity.  The crone was there also, pretending to doze in the shadows; and so was Foresto the horse-boy, whose dark, still face seemed now and again to mirror Raffaele’s look of exultation—­a look that came only when Madonna Gemma gazed away from him.

But for the most part she gazed down at Raffaele’s singing lips, on which she discerned no guile.

Tireless, he sang to her of a world fairer even than that of her maidenhood.  It was a region where for women all feeling of abasement ceased, because there the troubadour, by his homage, raised one’s soul high above the tyranny of uncomprehending husbands.

She learned—­for so it had been decided in Provence—­that high sentiment was impossible in wedlock at its best; that between husband and wife there was no room for love.  Thus, according to the Regula Amoris, it was not only proper, but also imperative, to seek outside the married life some lofty love-alliance.

The day wore on thus.  The sun had distilled from many blossoms the whole intoxicating fragrance of the springtime.  A golden haze was changing Madonna Gemma’s prison into a paradise.

Her vision was dimmed by a glittering film of tears.  Her fingers helplessly unfolded on her lap.  She believed that at last she had learned love’s meaning.  And Raffaele, for all his youth no novice at this game, believed that this dove, too, was fluttering into his cage.

By sunset their cheeks were flaming.  At twilight their hands turned cold.

Then they heard the bang of the gate and the croaking voice of Lapo Cercamorte.

He entered the hall as he had so often entered the houses of terror-stricken enemies, clashing at each ponderous, swift step, his mail dusty, his hair wet and dishevelled, his dull-red face resembling a mask of heated iron.  That atmosphere just now swimming in languor, was instantly permeated by a wave of force, issuing from this herculean body and barbaric brain.  When he halted before those two they seemed to feel the heat that seethed in his steel-bound breast.

His disfigured face still insolvable, Lapo Cercamorte plunged his stare into Madonna Gemma’s eyes, then looked into the eyes of Raffaele.  His hoarse voice broke the hush; he said to the young man: