A golden haze was
changing Madonna Gemma's prison into a paradise.
Her vision was dimmed by a glittering film of tears. Her fingers
helplessly unfolded on her lap. She believed that at last she had
learned love's meaning. And Raffaele, for all his youth no novice at
this game, believed that this dove, too, was fluttering into his cage.
By sunset their cheeks were flaming. At twilight their hands turned
cold.
Then they heard the bang of the gate and the croaking voice of Lapo
Cercamorte.
He entered the hall as he had so often entered the houses of
terror-stricken enemies, clashing at each ponderous, swift step, his
mail dusty, his hair wet and dishevelled, his dull-red face
resembling a mask of heated iron. That atmosphere just now swimming
in languor, was instantly permeated by a wave of force, issuing from
this herculean body and barbaric brain. When he halted before those
two they seemed to feel the heat that seethed in his steel-bound
breast.
His disfigured face still insolvable, Lapo Cercamorte plunged his
stare into Madonna Gemma's eyes, then looked into the eyes of
Raffaele. His hoarse voice broke the hush; he said to the young man:
"So you are the sister of my friend Count Nicolloto?"
Raffaele, having licked his lips, managed to answer:
"You mean his brother, sir.
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