“It was a good stile once,” said Gonsalvo.
“Maybe,” said Gulvarez.
Gonsalvo sighed.
“They are fair fields, are they not?” Gonsalvo said.
“Aye,” said Gulvarez. But he looked all round at them before he answered, which somehow saddened Gonsalvo.
“It is time for breakfast,” Gonsalvo said.
“Aye,” said Gulvarez, again with that jovial voice, “I have a merry appetite.”
So back they went together from those fair fields, and the morning seemed to shine bright for Gulvarez only.
The Lady of the Tower awaited them, but not Mirandola, nor did she appear while they breakfasted. Gulvarez, refreshed by the morning and charmed at the sight of those fields, was full of a joviality that he would have expressed by gallant sayings told to a beautiful girl. But where was Mirandola?
“She is taking her breakfast with the Duke,” said Mirandola’s mother.
So Gulvarez waited. And the morning went by and still she did not come, and the stress of impatience caused a change in the nature of Gulvarez’ joviality, as the nature of fruit changes when it ferments.
She came to them in the early afternoon with little in her face to show whether the Duke fared well or ill, and saying nothing of him until asked by her father.
“He prospers,” she said, “and will take the road tomorrow.”
“He will go?” said Gonsalvo.
“Yes, tomorrow,” said Mirandola.
“Is he wroth with us yet?” said Gonsalvo.
“I know not,” she answered.
They would know tomorrow. Gonsalvo thought again of his plan, and went into the garden with Gulvarez to discuss how Mirandola should lead the Duke to the road while he and his lady and Gulvarez were elsewhere. Within the house her mother looked at Mirandola and was about to speak, but in all the moments that she looked at her daughter she saw no sign of the matter upon which she would have spoken, so closed her lips again and did not speak. When Gonsalvo and Gulvarez came back from the garden Mirandola had gone again with more food and drink to the Duke.
And now Gulvarez sat silent, speaking indeed when spoken to, but always returning to brood, as it seemed to Gonsalvo, upon the same theme, whatever that theme might be. He seemed to be thinking some thought, or working upon some problem, that was surprisingly new, and that could only be followed with difficulty, and yet could not be left. Once he opened his lips to speak, but what he was going to say seemed so strange to him that in the end he said nothing. So he sat there brooding upon his new thought, a man unaccustomed to thinking, and all the more perplexed at having to brood alone, yet the thought was too strange to share it with Gonsalvo; it seemed too near to madness. And, as he brooded there, from amongst the things that he could see in his mind the three fields faded away.
Next morning the Duke rose. The four chiefs of his bowmen, who all that week had moved about the house seldom speaking to any, like stately silent shadows, showed now an alertness such as comes to the swallows when they know that September is here; and all was prepared for departure.
The Duke had breakfasted before he descended. He was all ready for the road. Nothing remained but that Mirandola, meeting him at the foot of the stairs, should lead him by a path through an arm of the forest, the four bowmen following, and out on to the road at a point at which Peter should have his horse for him; when, not seeing his host or Gulvarez where he would be given to expect them, he would ride away, and Mirandola would carry any farewells for him. These were the plans of Gonsalvo, whereby he hoped to escape the wrath of the Duke if that magical anger still smouldered. He had told them to Mirandola overnight, and she had dutifully hearkened and promised to do the bidding of her father. “All will be well,” he had said to Gulvarez. But Gulvarez had maintained that silence of his that was troubled by his new broodings.
The step of the Duke was heard on the stair; behind him tramped his four bowmen. Mirandola looked up.
“Your horse is on the road at the end of the path,” she said. “I will show you.”
“Is it not at the door?” he asked.
“I think my father sent it to the end of the path,” she answered. She gave no reason; there was none. It was the weak part of Gonsalvo’s scheme. She watched his face a moment with anxiety. But a glad smile came on his face.
“We will go by the path,” he said.
Great indeed was the wrong that had been done him in that house, but it pleased the Duke to think, and he invented many reasons to help his contention, that Mirandola could have no part in it. From this he had come to believe that she had no real part in that house, but was something almost elfin that had haunted it out of the forest, or something that had come for a little while to cheer its hateful rooms, as a ray from the sun may briefly enter a dungeon. Indeed it is hard to say what the Duke was thinking, for his brain was all awhirl. Whatever he thought was unjust, for Mirandola was the one light to him in the dark inhospitality of that house. Whereas—but never mind: it all happened so long ago.
So they went by the path. It ran through a part of the garden; then to the wild, then turned from the heather and rocks and ran awhile through the forest and out to the high road. It was the way that Peter and the dairymaids took, for it brought them into the Tower by a small door at the back, but the road went by the front door.
The Duke walked slowly, full of thought and quite silent. He had looked
