The poor Italian saw, when it was too late, that this was not a noble love, one of those which does not mete out joy as a miser his crowns; and that this lady took delight in letting him jump about outside the hedge and be master of everything, provided he touched not the garden of love.  At this business Cappara became a savage enough to kill anyone, and took with him trusty companions, his friends, to whom he gave the task of attacking the husband while walking home to bed after his game of tennis with the king.  He came to his lady at the accustomed hour when the sweet sports of love were in full swing, which sports were long, lasting kisses, hair twisted and untwisted, hand bitten with passion, ears as well; indeed, the whole business, with the exception of that especial thing which good authors rightly find abominable.  The Florentine exclaims between two hearty kisses—­

“Sweet one, do you love me more than anything?”

“Yes,” said she, because words never cost anything.

“Well then,” replied the lover, “be mine in deed as in word.”

“But,” said she, “my husband will be here directly.”

“Is that the only reason?” said he.

“Yes.”

“I have friends who will cross him, and will not let him go unless I show a torch at this window.  If he complain to the king, my friends will say, they thought they were playing a joke on one of their own set.”

“Ah, my dear,” said she, “let me see if everyone in the house is gone to bed.”

She rose, and held the light to the window.  Seeing which Cappara blew out the candle, seized his sword, and placing himself in front of the woman, whose scorn and evil mind he recognised.

“I will not kill you, madame,” said he, “but I will mark your face in such a manner you will never again coquette with young lovers whose lives you waste.  You have deceived me shamefully, and are not a respectable woman.  You must know that a kiss will never sustain life in a true lover, and that a kissed mouth needs the rest.  Your have made my life forever dull and wretched; now I will make you remember forever my death, which you have caused.  You shall never again behold yourself in a glass without seeing there my face also.”  Then he raised his arm, and held the sword ready to cut off a good slice of the fresh fair cheek, where still all the traces of his kiss remained.  And the lady exclaimed, “You wretch!”

“Hold your tongue,” said he; “you told me that you loved me better than anything.  Now you say otherwise; each evening have you raised me a little nearer to heaven; with one blow you cast me into hell, and you think that your petticoat can save you from a lover’s wrath—­No!”

“Ah, my Angelo!  I am thine,” said she, marvelling at this man glaring with rage.

But he, stepping three paces back, replied, “Ah, woman of the court and wicked heart, thou lovest, then, thy face better than thy lover.”