was a good deal cooler than she would have liked—­that she saw day break; whereupon, disconcerted that it had not fallen out as the scholar had promised, she said to herself:—­I misdoubt me he was minded to give me such a night as I gave him; but if such was his intent, he is but maladroit in his revenge, for this night is not as long by a third as his was, besides which, the cold is of another quality.  And that day might not overtake her there, she began to think of descending, but, finding that the ladder was removed, she felt as if the world had come to nought beneath her feet, her senses reeled, and she fell in a swoon upon the floor of the roof.  When she came to herself, she burst into tears and piteous lamentations, and witting now very well that ’twas the doing of the scholar, she began to repent her that she had first offended him, and then trusted him unduly, having such good cause to reckon upon his enmity; in which frame she abode long time.  Then, searching if haply she might find some means of descent, and finding none, she fell a weeping again, and bitterly to herself she said:—­Alas for thee, wretched woman! what will thy brothers, thy kinsmen, thy neighbours, nay, what will all Florence say of thee, when ’tis known that thou hast been found here naked?  Thy honour, hitherto unsuspect, will be known to have been but a shew, and shouldst thou seek thy defence in lying excuses, if any such may be fashioned, the accursed scholar, who knows all thy doings, will not suffer it.  Ah! poor wretch! that at one and the same time hast lost thy too dearly cherished gallant and thine own honour!  And therewith she was taken with such a transport of grief, that she was like to cast herself from the tower to the ground.  Then, bethinking her that if she might espy some lad making towards the tower with his sheep, she might send him for her maid, for the sun was now risen, she approached one of the parapets of the tower, and looked out, and so it befell that the scholar, awakening from a slumber, in which he had lain a while at the foot of a bush, espied her, and she him.  Whereupon:—­“Good-day, Madam,” quoth he:—­“are the damsels yet come?” The lady saw and heard him not without bursting afresh into a flood of tears, and besought him to come into the tower, that she might speak with him:  a request which the scholar very courteously granted.  The lady then threw herself prone on the floor of the roof; and, only her head being visible through the aperture, thus through her sobs she spoke:—­“Verily, Rinieri, if I gave thee a bad night, thou art well avenged on me, for, though it be July, meseemed I was sore a cold last night, standing here with never a thread upon me, and, besides, I have so bitterly bewept both the trick I played thee and my own folly in trusting thee, that I marvel that I have still eyes in my head.  Wherefore I implore thee, not for love of me, whom thou hast no cause to love, but for the respect thou hast for thyself as a gentleman,