I cannot tell you in words of the loveliness of Griselda.  She was as pure as the dew which gemmed the forest, as sweet-voiced as the birds, as light-footed and timid as the deer which started at the hunters’ coming.  Then her heart was so tender and good, she was so meek and gentle, that to love her was of itself a blessing; and to be in her presence was like basking in the beams of the May sun.

This morning she and her father sat under the tree by their cottage door, as the hunting-train passed by.  They were weaving baskets; and, as they worked, they sang together.

As the hunting party swept by, Griselda looked up, and noted again, as had happened several mornings before, that the penetrating eyes of the handsome duke were fixed on her.

“I fear he is angry that we sit so near his path,” mused Griselda.  “How his eyes look into one’s soul.  His gaze really makes me tremble.  I will not sit here on his return, lest it be displeasing to him.”

Before the hunt was fairly out of sight, a gossiping neighbor came to the hut of Janiculo, to tell the good news.  Now, indeed, the duke was really going to wed.  He had promised to bring a wife with him when he came back from the hunt.  People said he had ridden into the next province, to ask the hand of the duke’s beautiful daughter in marriage.  And it might be depended on he would bring the bride home on the milk-white palfrey, which one of his squires had led by a silver bridle.

It was almost sunset when the trampling of hoofs told Griselda that the hunting party were coming back; and remembering what the talkative neighbor had said, she thought she would like to take a peep at the young bride when they passed on their way to the palace.  She had just been to the well for some water, and she stood in the doorway, with her bare, round arm poising the earthen pitcher on her head, and the rosy toes of her little bare feet peeping from beneath her brown gown, to watch the hunt go by.

Nearer and nearer came the train; louder and louder sounded the clatter, and full in sight came the duke, with the white palfrey, led by its silver bridle, close beside him.  But the saddle was empty, and no bride was among the huntsmen.

“Can it be possible the lady would refuse him,—­so handsome and noble as he looks?” thought Griselda.

How astonished she was when the duke, riding up to the hut, asked for her father.  She was pale with fright, lest their humble presence had in some way offended the prince; and, all in a tremble, ran in to call old Janiculo.  He came out, as much puzzled and frightened as his daughter.  “Look up, Janiculo,” said the duke, graciously.  “You have heard, perhaps, that to-day is my wedding-day.  With your good will, I propose to take to wife your daughter Griselda.  Will you give her to me in marriage?”

If a thunder-bolt had struck the earth at old Janiculo’s feet, he could not have been more stunned.  He gazed at the earth, the sky, and into his lord’s face, who had to repeat his question three times, before the old man could speak.