She passed the long day anxiously, fearing what weakness and the want of food might do to that mirror of chivalry, the young Duke, at whom folk gazed in the glorious courts of Spain, when he came to visit the victorious King; what wonder then he stirred hearts when he rode through the little fields to such a tower as this in the lonely lands, where the forest ended all, and illustrious knights rode rarely and were gone by in a canter. She was ill at ease all day. Only once a sparkle of her own merriness came back to her. Her mother had asked her to walk in the garden with Gulvarez, and Mirandola spoke of the Duke’s hunger, and thought that he might take food from his friend and would doubtless drink with him. So Gulvarez went, with a large plate full of food, and a flagon of wine and two glasses; and the voice of the Duke was heard, ringing out with that magical anger. Back then came Gulvarez, denying all the things that were said the loudest, and that must have been clearly heard, and brooding upon the rest; and there was no walk in the garden.
And all that day went by, and none could bring food to the Duke. But when evening came and all was quiet but the birds; and light came in serenely, level through windows; with the flash of insects, silver across the rays; all in the calm Mirandola took the flagon, and past the bowmen went to the Duke’s door, and opened it and stood there in the doorway. And for a moment his anger muttered, then stumbled, and was all silent, as though it had faded out with the fading of day, or had some magical cause whose power had waned, and he lay there looking at Mirandola and she stood looking at him. So passed a moment.
Then she came to him and poured into a chalice a little wine from the flagon. Once more she offered him wine; but it was all earthly now, the glory and the glow of southern vineyards, and distilled by no prentice hand such as Ramon Alonzo’s. And he accepted the wine, lying weak on his bed. Awhile she spoke with him, until there came to him the thought of food, and when he spoke of it she went to bring it to him. She passed again by the bowmen, who questioned her in low voices. “He will recover,” she said, and sighed as she said it, thinking of all the night and day he had lain there pale and weak. She went to the kitchen and gathered small savoury things such as might be lightly eaten by one that had been so strangely troubled, small earthly condiments of daily uses that had nought to do with magic. And a rumour, of things overheard from the mutterings of the bowmen, spread through the house and told that the Duke would eat again.
Then came Gulvarez to the kitchen offering to carry the plates for Mirandola. And this she let him do. And when they were come to the door of the Duke’s bedchamber he carried the plates in, Mirandola waiting without. But even yet the Duke’s anger was not over, and the sound of it boomed down the corridor, as he swore that none in that house should bring him food, unless Mirandola; and least of all Gulvarez, who had brought him to those accursed doors within which he had suffered so vilely. And Gulvarez came out so swiftly that the food shook and slid on the plates; then Mirandola took them and went in; and Gulvarez remained awhile with the bowmen, explaining such things as men explain when sudden fault has been found with them unjustly or justly.
The Duke ate little for weakness; but Mirandola sat by his bed, and somehow her eyes strengthened him when he looked in the deep calm of them, as though he found a power in their gentleness: and often he stopped, overwrought by the wrong that that house had done him, but flashes from Mirandola’s eyes seemed to beat across his wrath and seemed to parry it, and after a while he would eat a little again. And so a little of his strength came back, and for brief whiles he slept. Then Mirandola crept out and told the bowmen, and one by one they stole in on their soundless feet, and saw that his sleep was natural, and stole out again; and all the house was hushed, and the Duke slept till morning.
XIX
Father Joseph Explains How the Laity Have No Need of the Pen
Gonsalvo and Gulvarez went early to the Duke’s bedchamber to assure themselves that the hopes of last night were just and that the Duke would live. He still lay weakly upon his bed but his anger flamed up at once as soon as he saw them, and was the old enormous wrath they had known the last two days. Before it they backed away towards the door, and ever as they tarried fresh waves of it overtook them and seemed to sweep them further. Sometimes one would delay and stammer polite excuses, while the other backed away faster; then the rush of the Duke’s anger would bear down on the one that was nearest and drive him back spluttering; and another swirl of it soon would overtake the other. So, breathless with protestations, they were both swept out, and behind the closed door the Duke’s anger died into mutterings, like the croon of a tide along a deserted shore.
Descending they joined the Lady of the Tower and Father Joseph in the room where the boar-spears hung. And in answer to the anxious enquiry in his lady’s eyes as they entered Gonsalvo said: “He has slept and is no weaker. But the humours of sickness have not yet left him.”
She turned then to Gulvarez, seeming to look
