When he had locked the door and with Foresto's slow help braced some
pike-shafts against it, he tried to make Baldo lie down.
The old man vowed profanely that he would die on his feet. Shambling
to the casement niche, he gaped forth at the dawn. Below him a
frosty world was emerging from the mist. He saw the ring of the
ramparts, and in the courtyard the barrack ruins smouldering. Beyond,
the hillside also smoked, with shredding vapours; and at the foot of
the hill he observed a strange sight--the small figure of a man in
tunic and hood, feylike amid the mist, that danced and made gestures
of joy. Baldo, clinging to the casement-sill on bending legs,
summoned Cercamorte to look at the dancing figure.
"What is it, Lapo? A devil?"
"One of our guests, no doubt," said Cercamorte, dashing the tears
from his eyes. "Hark! the door at the foot of the staircase has
fallen. Now we come to our parting, old friend."
"Give me a bow and an arrow," cried Baldo, with a rattle in his
throat. "Whoever that zany is, he shall not dance at our funeral.
Just one more shot, my Lapo. You shall see that I still have it in me."
Cercamorte could not deny him this last whim. He found and strung a
bow, and chose a Ghibelline war-arrow.
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