His habits were solitary. Often when his work was done he
wandered into the woods to return with a capful of berries or a
squirrel that he had snared. Because he was silent, deft, and
daintier than a horse-boy ought to be, Lapo finally bade him serve
Madonna Gemma.
Watching his dark, blank face as he strewed fresh herbs on her
pavement, she wondered:
"Does he know the truth?"
Their glances met; he seemed to send her a veiled look of
comprehension and promise. But whenever he appeared the crone was
there.
One morning however, Foresto had time to whisper:
"The Arabian."
What did that mean? Was the Arab magician, recluse in his wretched
hut below the castle, prepared to serve her? Was it through him and
Foresto that she might hope to escape or at least to manage some
revenge? Thereafter she often watched the renegade's window, from
which, no matter how late the hour, shone a glimmering of lamplight.
Was he busy at his magic? Could those spells be enlisted on her side?
Then, under an ashen sky of autumn, as night was creeping in, she
saw the Arabian ascending the hill to the castle. His tall figure,
as fleshless as a mummy's, was swathed in a white robe like a
winding sheet; his beaked face and hollow eye-sockets were like a
vision of Death.
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