CHAPTER XIII
I HAD not much time for such womanish moments. Soon Simonetta returned to me, and there was fear in her face.
"It is Mazzaleone's bidding that you and I shall come to the foot of the garden," said she.
In our house that evening there was a great company assembled, since those who live under such a shadow as we do not love solitude. When we gained the great hall we stood aside while Mazzaleone was talking to this one or that one. Then says he to my lady:
"The night is warm. Shall we walk for a while in the garden?" Together they walked forth into the night. After a moment, as we had been bidden, we followed them. Our garden marches down, terrace by terrace, to the river. A narrow slit it is, and full of solemn cypresses, and at this season full of oleander bloom. It seemed to me as I walked past their ghostly flowers that I had never heard so much rustling among the leaves; unrest was in the air, and fear. I felt that there was some hidden menace about, and Simonetta shivered and slid her hand into mine. Then as we came to the foot of the garden where the high wall keeps out the river, I saw that the wall was alive with Mazzaleone's men-at-arms, and that behind each cypress stood one of the men of the Conti.
For a moment my lady stood alone by herself, while it seemed that the night waited, panting; the moonlight fell upon her and I marveled that any woman could look as sweet as she, and so happy, when a sea of blood was lapping at her very feet. It seemed strange that anything with so innocent a look could live at the core of so much hate and so much conflicting desire.
So for a second it seemed that this night stood quiet to watch her, as did the men hiding in night's darkness. I knew that Mazzaleone's men waited and that among the cypress-trees waited the men of our house, all with their eyes upon her.
Then from behind us came the whispering sound of the soft drawing of swords, and I heard the voice of Mazzaleone say:
"Quick, toward the wall!" and he stood before her while Bartolommeo and Andrea and Malatesta leaped toward her. There was the sound of the men now unleashed, then her dear voice from the midst of them:
"Wait, my lords. It seems that here there is some mistake. And have you thought, Egidio, that my lord Bartolommeo has taught me to trust men so that I would go with you? It is true," says she, "that I have been nursing to myself the thought of escape, and you yourself, Egidio, had given me it. And I thought of that escape in my own death, and for a while, as one dying may wish to drink of a cool cup of water, I have taken pleasure in the friend of my childhood. For I loved your strength and I loved the subtlety of your wit, and they were the fairest things I had ever known. But in these latter days I have seen for the first time a strength that is beyond your strength and a power that makes naught of your subtlety. To this higher strength and power have I given my life. And now I say adieu to you, Egidio, and to you, Bartolommeo, I say adieu."
So alone she walked up the terraces one by one, and Mazzaleone's men vanished from the wall, and under each cypress-tree our men stood silent. Half-way up the garden she turned to a little door which led over the bridge, and by the door stood two of those whom we afterward came to know as the Poor Ladies of Santa Clara, and she went with them. From the other side of the bridge there came to us the singing of Brother Agnello's company of mercy.
Thus Mazzaleone and Bartolommeo suffered her to go. For they could have stopped her no more than death, and they could follow her as little as one may follow the soul when it flies from the body. And so they bowed their heads as before death.