Galeazzo had descended from the battlements, and sat in a little room of the gatehouse, with only a few, including his wife and child, to attend him. And his brow was wrinkled, and the lust of fury, beyond dissembling, in his veins. He took no notice of Lanti—though generally well enough disposed to the bully—but glared, even with some amazement in his rage, on the boy. ’Who art thou?’ he thundered at length. ’Bernardo Bembo.’ The clear voice was like the call of a bird’s through tempest. ’Whence comest thou?’ ’From San Zeno in the hills.’ ’What seek’st thou here?’ ’Thy cure.’ The Duke started, and seemed actually to crouch for a moment. Then, while all held their breath in fear, of a sudden he fell back, and gripped a hand to his heart, and muttered, staring: ’The face!’ He closed his eyes, and passed a tremulous hand across his brow before he looked again; and lo! when he did so, the madness was past. ’Child,’ he said hoarsely, almost whispered, ’what said’st thou? Come nearer: let me look at thee.’ He rose himself, with the word, stiffly, like an old man, and stood before the boy, and gazing hungrily for a little into the solemn eyes, dropped his own as if abashed—half-blinded. In the background, Bona, his wife, and the child Catherine clung together in a silence of fear and wonder. ’Ah, I am haunted!’ shuddered the tyrant. ’Who told thee that? It is a face, child, a face—there—in the dead watches of the night—behind me—and by day, always the same, a damned clinging bur on my soul—not to be shaken off—always behind me!’ He gave a little jerk and motion of repugnance, as if he were trying to throw something off. Carlo struck in: ’Lord, let him sing to thee! I say no more.’ The deep, gloomy eyes of the Duke were lifted one instant to the strange seraph-gaze fixed silently upon him; then, making an acquiescent motion with his hand, he turned, and sat himself down again as if exhausted, and hid his brow under his palm. Now the boy, never looking away, slung forward his lute, and like one that charms a serpent, began softly to finger the strings. And Galeazzo’s head, in very truth like an adder’s, swung to the rhythm; and as the chords rose piercing, he clutched his brow, and as they melted and sobbed away, so did he sink and moan. And then, suddenly, into that wild symphony drew the voice, as a spray of sweetbriar is drawn into a wheel; and all around caught their breath to listen:—