And in the afternoon the Duke’s sickness ceased, so far as the bowmen could hear who guarded the door, but his anger remained with him, and none could bring him food, not even his own bowmen.
And the evening wore away and the Duke was weak after his vomitings, yet none of his bowmen durst enter to bring him food, for he roared with anger whenever one touched his door, and any mention of food increased his fury. And at nightfall the Lord of the Tower himself brought food, but when he came to the door the Duke swore an oath to eat no food in that house nor even drink water there. So he went disconsolately away.
In the anxiety that hung over all that house the suit of Gulvarez made but little progress. He talked to Mirandola, but there was a strange silence upon her, and she had spoken seldom since the Duke had drunk the wine that was in the chalice she brought him. He spoke awhile with her mother but, whatever words were said, all ears were only alert for any sounds that might tell or hint any changes in the Duke’s health or his anger. And it grew late and none durst go again to the Duke’s chamber with food. So they went to their own bedchambers, passing by the silent bowmen sternly guarding the door; and when midnight came it brought no hush to that house that was not lying heavily there already, for the whole house seemed to brood on the enormity of the insult that it had offered to that serene Magnifico the Duke of Shadow Valley.
But when morning came and still the Duke refused food, and still lay weak on his bed and his anger was strong as ever, and not even the bowmen durst bring to him food or drink, then a new and darker anxiety troubled the house. For if his weakness forbade him to ride away and his anger would not permit him to touch food or drink in that house, might not the Duke die? Then the Lord of the Tower told his lady that he would try once more; and he went with a savoury dish and a flagon of wine. But he returned so soon, so flushed and so ill at ease, that the anxieties of all that saw him were only increased. Of what had passed he said nothing, beyond saying to his lady and often telling over again, whether to others or muttering it low to himself, that he knew that the Duke had never meant what he said. Then Father Joseph, noticing his distress, went without a word to the savoury dish and the flagon and carried them from the room, and soon his suave phrases were heard outside the Duke’s door by such as listened round corners in their anxiety; and none failed to hear the roar of the Duke’s answers. So Father Joseph sighed and returned to the Lord of the Tower, who, wishful to conceal that he had heard what the Duke had shouted, said to his guest: “How fared you?”
“The power of Holy Church is waning,” said Father Joseph. “It is not what it was in the good days.”
“Alas,” said Gonsalvo. And there were looks of commiseration towards Father Joseph.
“It is because of all this sin,” Father Joseph continued, “that there has been in the world of late.” And the commiserating looks changed all of a sudden, for they knew that Father Joseph knew all their sins.
Then the Lady of the Tower took the flagon, thinking that perchance the Duke might drink if no word were said about food.
“He will not touch it. He will not touch it,” said her lord as she left. Nor did he.
When the Lady of the Tower was gone Father Joseph drew Mirandola a little apart.
“It is a strange and awful anger,” he said to her.
“Is it?” she said, a little above a whisper, her eyes much hidden under the dark lashes.
“Yes,” said he.
And no more said Mirandola till in a little while he spoke again.
“What was it?” said Father Joseph.
“A love-potion,” said Mirandola.
Father Joseph thought for a moment, though his face showed no more sign of thought than surprise.
“I fear your brother mixed it ill,” he said.
“I fear so,” said Mirandola.
And, his curiosity satisfied, he had leisure to turn to the things of his blessed calling. “Nor does Holy Church commend these snatchings,” he added, “at the good things of the world by means of the evil Art and the brews of magic.”
“I have sinned,” said Mirandola.
Father Joseph waved a hand. It was a small sin to bring to the notice of one of his years and calling; for there were enough men and women in his little parish for the study of every sin. Nevertheless he was thinking deeply.
Then Mirandola saw her mother return, and put down food and flagon with a sigh. And she knew that that splendid young man was lying there without food, and the thought of the harm she had done him touched her heart to a sudden impulse.
“I will take the food to him myself,” she said.
Instantly Father Joseph laid a firm hand on her arm.
“When he is weaker,” he said.
Mirandola looked at him, held back by his grip, while her impulse died away.
“Yes. Not till evening,” said he, with that assurance that he was wont to use whenever he spoke of the certainties of salvation. And more than his heavy grip that tone
