"
Next day, on the sunny tower, high above the hillside covered with
spring flowers, Raffaele resumed his song. He sat at the feet of
Madonna Gemma, who wore a grass-green gown embroidered with unicorns,
emblems of purity. The crone was there also, pretending to doze in
the shadows; and so was Foresto the horse-boy, whose dark, still
face seemed now and again to mirror Raffaele's look of exultation--a
look that came only when Madonna Gemma gazed away from him.
But for the most part she gazed down at Raffaele's singing lips, on
which she discerned no guile.
Tireless, he sang to her of a world fairer even than that of her
maidenhood. It was a region where for women all feeling of abasement
ceased, because there the troubadour, by his homage, raised one's
soul high above the tyranny of uncomprehending husbands.
She learned--for so it had been decided in Provence--that high
sentiment was impossible in wedlock at its best; that between
husband and wife there was no room for love. Thus, according to the
Regula Amoris, it was not only proper, but also imperative, to seek
outside the married life some lofty love-alliance.
The day wore on thus. The sun had distilled from many blossoms the
whole intoxicating fragrance of the springtime.
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