Gulvarez well understood; for there had been a bargain not in clear words, and without seals or parchment, inscribed only upon those two men’s understanding, that if he brought the Duke to visit the Lord of the Tower the hand of Mirandola should go to Gulvarez. And the time was come to ratify it. Gladly then Gulvarez went away with his host.
The bringing of the Duke had been none of Gonsalvo’s bargain; he had come to a time of life when events and occasions seemed but to disturb the placidity of the years: it had been forced on him by some whim of Mirandola. They came to the room that the host most often used, in which there were indeed boars’ tusks to show; but this both men soon forgot.
“I have begun to think somewhat of late,” said the Lord of the Tower, “concerning my daughter’s future.”
“Indeed?” said Gulvarez.
“Somewhat,” replied his host.
No more instants passed than are needed for a heavy mind to move; and then Gulvarez said: “I take then this opportunity to express my ready willingness to marry your daughter should this have your approval. I trust that my castle may be an abode not unworthy of one of your honoured house.”
Gladly then the Lord of the Tower expressed his approval in phrases not unfitted to that occasion: many such phrases he uttered, fair, courteous, and flowery, and still invented more, though the arts of perfect speech were some years behind him now; but he feared the next words of Gulvarez and seemed to wish to delay them: perhaps he blindly hoped to stave them off altogether.
“You will doubtless,” said Gulvarez, “give her a dowry in keeping with the lustre of your name.”
“I shall indeed give her a dowry,” said Gonsalvo. “Indeed the coffer that I set aside for this very purpose is here.” And he laid his hand on the coffer of oak and silver.
Gulvarez lifted the box a few inches with one large hand, that could span the box and hold it, and put it down again. The Lord of the Tower waited for him to speak, but Gulvarez said nothing. It seemed to the owner of the box that it would have been better had Gulvarez depreciated it than that he should have thus weighed it in silence. And as Gulvarez did not speak, his host continued.
“It is not as if I had not the coffer,” he said. “It is here. I have set it aside. But it has not been convenient to plenish it lately, or indeed as yet to put anything in it at all.”
Still Gulvarez said nothing.
“The coffer is there,” said Gonsalvo. Gulvarez nodded.
“I had intended to fill it later,” Gonsalvo continued, “if it should not be ready by the day of the wedding; and one day to send it after Mirandola.”
Gulvarez was slowly and heavily shaking his head. It seemed to the Lord of the Tower that the stubbly growth of Gulvarez’s chestnut whiskers almost shone as he shook his head, as the skin of a horse when he is in good fettle.
“That would be too late?” said Gonsalvo.
“Somewhat,” replied Gulvarez.
Gonsalvo sighed. It must then be the three fair fields, the pastures that lay at evening under the shade of the forest. Perhaps two; but, no, Gulvarez would ask for all three; and how could he find a husband for Mirandola if he rejected Gulvarez’s demands? Time was when he could have done so, for he had known somewhat of the world once. But the world had changed.
“My son, Ramon Alonzo,” he said, “is studying to learn a livelihood, from which we have great hopes.”
Never a word from Gulvarez helped him out; merely a look of interest that compelled him to go on. “In case he should be delayed,” he continued, “in assisting me to set aside the dowry that I should wish to offer, my fields, my two fields, should be given, until the money was sent.”
“Two fields?” said Gulvarez.
“Nay, nay,” said his host. “All three.”
“Ah,” said Gulvarez.
“So we shall be agreed,” said Gonsalvo.
“How much money, señor, are you pleased to give on the day that it shall be convenient?”
“Three hundred crowns of the Golden Age,” replied the Lord of the Tower.
Gulvarez smiled and shook his head as though in meditation.
“Five hundred,” said the Lord of the Tower.
“My respect for your illustrious house,” said Gulvarez, “and my friendship for you, señor, that I deem myself honoured to have, holds me silent.”
“Five hundred?” said the host with awe in his voice, for it was a great sum.
Gulvarez waved something away with his hand in the emptiness of the air. “Let us speak no more, señor,” he said. “Our two hearts are agreed. It is a great honour, and I am dumb before it.”
The Lord of the Tower sighed. He had known, whenever he thought, that he should do no better than this; and yet he had thought seldom, but hoped instead. Now it was over, and the three fields gone. They never seemed fairer than now. “Come,” he said, “we must return to Mirandola.”
So back they went, and jauntily walked Gulvarez, though in no wise built or planned for walking jauntily; but a spirit, whether of greed or love or triumph, was exalted within him and was lifting his steps. Once more, as they returned to the banquet-chamber, his whiskers seemed to shine.
“Heigho,” thought the Lord of the Tower; “my three sweet fields!”
And there was Mirandola standing near her mother, her left hand to her dress, about the girdle, as though armed. And a look was on her face that Father Joseph could not interpret, for he had come into the room and was watching her. It was as though she were about to enter a contest, and stood proud before an armed
