In those petty Guelph courts, wherever the tender lore of Provence
had sanctified the love of troubadour for great lady, the noblemen
cried out in fury; the noblewomen, transformed into tigresses,
demanded Lapo's death. Old Grangioia and his three sons arrived at
the Muti fortress raving for sudden vengeance. There they were
joined by others, rich troubadours, backed by many lances, whose
rage could not have been hotter had Lapo, that "wild beast in human
form," defaced the Holy Sepulchre. At last the Marquis Azzo was
forced to reflect:
"Cercamorte has served me well, but if I keep them from him our
league may be torn asunder. Let them have him. But he will die hard."
Round the Big Hornets' Nest the crows were thicker than ever.
* * * * *
One cold, foggy evening Lapo Cercamorte at last pushed open his
wife's chamber door. Madonna Gemma was alone, wrapped in a fur-lined
mantle, warming her hands over an earthen pot full of embers.
Standing awkwardly before her, Lapo perceived that her beauty was
fading away in this unhappy solitude. On her countenance was no
trace of that which he had hoped to see. He swore softly, cast down
from feverish expectancy into bewilderment.
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