That cult of Woman had been invented by the lute-playing nobles of
Provence. But quickly it had begun to spread from court to court,
from one land to another. So now, in Italy, as in southern France,
sometimes in wild hill castles as well as in the city palaces, a
hymn of adoration rose to the new divinity.
This was the song that Raffaele Muti, plucking at his twelve harp
strings, raised in the hall of the Big Hornets' Nest at twilight.
He sat by the fireplace on the guests' settee, beside Madonna Gemma.
The torches, dripping fire in the wall-rings, cast their light over
the faces of the wondering servants. The harp twanged its plaintive
interlude; then the song continued, quavering, soaring, athrob with
this new pathos and reverence, that had crept like the counterfeit
of a celestial dawn upon a world long obscured by a brutish dusk.
Raffaele Muti sang of a woman exalted far above him by her womanhood,
which rivalled Godhood in containing all the virtues requisite for
his redemption. Man could no longer sin when once she had thought
pityingly of him. Every deed must be noble if rooted in love of her.
All that one asked was to worship her ineffable superiority. How
grievously should one affront her virtue if ever one dreamed of
kisses! But should one dream of them, pray God she might never stoop
that far in mercy! No, passion must never mar this shrine at which
Raffaele knelt.
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