I would have no gloomy obsequies attend his fate. In tears, and strewing of flowers, and pretty plaintive dirges of the fields—in sighs and lutes of love, such as waited on the sweet Fidele, would I have ye honour him. Not because I would belittle that piercing tragedy, but because he would. It was none to him. He but turned his face for home, sorrowing only for his failure to win to his Christ, his comrade, a kingdom he should never have the chance to influence again. What had he else to fear? The star that had mothered, the road that had sped him? All grass and flowers was the latter; of the first, a fore-ray seemed already to have pierced the darkness of his cell, linking it to heaven. ’"Let’s sing him to the ground." "I cannot sing; I’ll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Than priests and fanes that lie."’ Bring hither, I say, no passion of a vengeful hate. It is the passing of a rose in winter. At near the end, lying in his Fool’s arms, he panted faintly:— ’My feet are weary for the turning. Pray ye, kind mother, that this road end soon.’ ’What! shall I hurry mine own damnation?’ gurgled the other (his tongue by then was clacking in his mouth). ’Trippingly, I warrant, shall ye take that path, unheeding of the poor wretch that lags a million miles behind lashed by a storm of scorpions.’ ’Marry, sweet,’ whispered the boy, smiling; ’I’ll wait thee, never fear, when once I see my way. How could I forego such witness as thou to my brave intentions? We’ll jog the road together, while I shield thy back.’ ’Well, let be,’ said Cicca. ’Better they stung that, than my heart through thine arm’—whereat Bernardo nipped him feebly in an ecstasy of tears. In the first hours of their fearful doom he was more full of wonder than alarm—astounded, in the swooning sense. He had not come yet to realise the mortal nature of their punishment. How should he, innocent of harm? Attributing, as he did, this sudden blow to Bona, he marvelled only how so kind a mother could chastise so sharply for a little offence—or none. Indeed he was conscious of none; though conscious enough, latterly, poor child, of an atmosphere of grievance. Well, the provocation had been his, no doubt—somehow. He had learned enough of woman in these months to know that the measure of her resentment was not always the measure of the fault—how she would sometimes stab deeper for a disappointment than for a wrong. He had disappointed her in some way. No doubt, his favour being so high, he had presumed upon it. A useful rebuke, then. He would bear his imposition manly; but he hoped, he did hope, that not too much of it would be held to have purged his misconduct. The Duke was returning shortly. Perhaps he would plead for him.