So, when he had persuaded
them to throw down their swords, he put off his flat-topped helmet
and seated himself with the Grangioia men.
A bargain ensued; he gave them their lives in exchange for their
allegiance. And it would have ended there had not the sun, reaching
in through a casement toward the group of silent women, touched the
face of old Grangioia's youngest daughter, Madonna Gemma.
From the crown of her head, whence her hair fell in bright ripples
like a gush of gold from the ladle of a goldsmith, to her white feet,
bare on the pavement, Madonna Gemma was one fragile piece of beauty.
In this hall heavy with torch smoke, and the sweat of many soldiers,
in this ring of blood-stained weapons and smouldering eyes, she
appeared like a delicate dreamer enveloped by a nightmare. Yet even
the long stare of Lapo Cercamorte she answered with a look of
defiance.
The conqueror rose, went jingling to her, thumbed a strand of her
bright hair, touched her soft cheek with his fingers, which smelled
of leather and horses. Grasping her by the elbow, he led her forward.
"Is this your daughter, Grangioia? Good. I will take her as a pledge
of your loyalty."
With a gesture old Grangioia commanded his sons to sit still.
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