But when Furio began to take up the babes, the boy from his nest among his cradle pillows, the girl from her soft refuge in the mother’s bosom,—­then the sorrow of Griselda would have melted the tough flint to tears.  She prayed with moving words, she shed such floods of tears, she gave such piteous cries of agony, that Furio, tearing the children away with one strong effort, ran from the room with the screaming infants, his own face drenched with weeping.  When the duke heard of all this, though it did not move him from his obstinacy of purpose, he yet grieved in secret, and wondered if Griselda’s love could outlast this trial.

The twin babes, torn so rudely from their mother, were sent to a noble sister of the duke, who dwelt in Pavia; but no word was told to Griselda of their fate; and she, poor mother, submissive to her husband’s will, because she believed it supreme, like God’s, dared not ask after them, lest she should hear that they were slain.

When the duke saw how Griselda had no reproaches, nothing but grief, to oppose to his will, even his jealousy was forced to confess that her faith had stood the test.  Whenever he looked on her, her gentle patience moved his heart to pity, and many times he half repented his cruelty.

Month after month, and year after year went by, and again and again did this demon of suspicion stir the duke to some trial of his wife’s obedience and patience.  He drove out the aged Janiculo from the comfortable lodgment in the palace in which Griselda had bestowed him, and forced him to return to the hut where he had lived before his daughter’s greatness.  And though Griselda’s paling face and sad eye told her sorrow, she uttered no word of complaint or anger against the duke.

“Is he not my liege lord?” she said to her own heart, when it sometimes rose in bitter complainings, “and did I not swear to obey his will in all things?”

At last the day came when they had been wedded twelve years.  Long ago had Griselda won the hearts of the people by her gentle manners, her sweet, sad face, her patient ways.  If Walter’s heart had not been made of senseless stone, he would now have been content.  But in his scheming brain he had conceived one final test, one trial more, from which, if Griselda’s patience came out unmoved, it would place her as the pearl of women, high above compare.

On this wedding morn, then, he came into her bower, and in cold speech, thus spoke to her,—­“Griselda, thou must have guessed that for many years I have bewailed the caprice which led me to take thee, low-born, and rude in manners, as my wife.  At last my people’s discontent, and my own heart, have told me that I must take a bride who can share fitly my state, and bring me a noble heir.  Even now from Pavia, my sister’s court, my young bride, surpassing beautiful, is on her way hither.  Canst though be content to go back to thy father, and leave me free to marry her?”