He did justice ever in the open. A broad green field outside one of the
gates served him for court. Two gibbets and an open pit stood for the
terror of the law; he himself, on a gilt chair under a canopy, for the
majesty of it. The day was bright, breezy, and white-clouded. The
poplars twinkled innumerably, the long Este gonfalon flacked and
strained in the wind. Spectators with soldiery to hedge them kept a wide
square about the plain. From their side the figures in the midst--the
red, gold, and white about the pavilion, the steel of the soldiers, the
drooping women between them--were about as real as a handful of
marionettes. It seemed impossible such puppets could decide issues of
life and death. But the red hangman and his machines were grim touches
for a puppet-show.
Olimpia Castaneve was brought forward first. She was more composed by
now--the air, the sun, the cheerful colours of the court, had warmed
her. She stood alone facing Borso. He, at first glance, remembered every
shred of her; but he betrayed nothing. There was no one more blankly
cool in this world than Borso on the judgment-seat.
"What is your name, mistress?"
"Magnificence, I am well known in Ferrara."
"Your name," thundered the Duke, "by the face of the sky!"
"Olimpia Castaneve."
"Did you cut off the head of the Captain of Lances, who was called Il
Mosca?"
Olimpia was looking very handsome, and knew it.
"Magnificence," she said, "my hand is on my heart." It was.
"What the devil has that got to do with it?" asked Borso, looking about
him for a reason.
"Serenity, if my heart were guilty, it would burn my hand. If my hand
were red, it would soil my heart."
"Pouf!" said Borso, and puckered his face. "Stand back, Castaneve. Now
for the little one. How are you called, baggage?"
Bellaroba shivered a very little, and looked solemn.
"Bellaroba, my lord."
"Very pretty; but I must have more."
"There is no more, my lord. I am wife of Angioletto."
"Well, well. I know Master Angioletto, and he me. We'll have him here, I
think. Hi, you!" said he, turning to an officer of his guards. "Go and
fetch the chimney-sweep."
Ten minutes passed; then Angioletto came up between a detachment of men,
unbound. He was not observed to falter throughout his course over the
broad field; but his eyes were fever bright and colour noticeably high.
Bellaroba did not look up at him; her eyelids fluttered, but she kept
her head hung, and as for her blushes they were curtained by her long
hair. He, on the contrary, directly he had bent his knee to the Duke,
turned to where she stood, and, in face of the whole city, put his arms
about her, and found a way to kiss her cheek. The broad ring of
onlookers wavered; the twitches played like summer lightning over
Borso's face.
"Come here, Angioletto," he said. Angioletto drew near the throne.
"You see now, my friend," the Duke continued in a low voice, "what may
happen to one's wife if she keeps not her bed o' nights. A certain
Captain Mosca has been stabbed. More than that, his head was attacked
when he had ceased to take any interest in it, and cut off. I ask no
words from you, no comments, no adjurations, for you are a prejudiced
party. Your wife and this other woman between them have done the
Captain's business. Mine is to find out how. Stand aside now and
listen."
Angioletto started, opened his mouth to speak--but the Duke put up his
hand. "Young man," said he sternly, "I am Duke of Ferrara, and you are
my prisoner. Be good enough to remember that."
Angioletto hung his head. Borso turned again to Bellaroba, but kept the
other in his eye.
"Now, missy, what had you to do with Captain Mosca's headpiece?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"What!" he roared. "Did you not cut it off?"
"No, my lord."
"Why not, girl? He was your enemy, I suppose?"
"I think he was, my lord."
"Think! Do you not know it? What did he want of you?"
"He wanted to make me bad, my lord."
"Ah! So you stabbed him, eh?"
"No, my lord."
"Come now, come now, girl. Look at your frock."
She did look and was silent.
"Well!" Borso continued, after a sharp glance at Angioletto. "Did your
husband cut it off?"
"No, my lord, he wasn't there--but--"
"Well--but what?"
"He would have killed him, my lord."
"Oh, the devil he would! Why?"
"Because he loves me, my lord."
"H'm. Well, Miss Bellaroba, where's your hand?"