Bembo had fled, like one distracted, from the walls, his faithful shadow jumping in his wake. The two, running and following, never slackened in their pace until a half-mile separated them from the city; and then, in a gloomy thicket, under a falling sky, the boy threw himself down on the grass, and buried his face from heaven. Pitiful and distraught, the Fool stood over, silently regarding him. At length he spoke, panting and reproachful. ’Nay, in pity, master, wert thou not advised?’ The boy writhed. ’So lying, so wicked cunning, to make me his decoy and seeming abettor! O, I am punished for my faith! Is Christ dead?’ The Fool sighed. ’By thy showing, He lingers behind in the wood.’ ’Tell Him I have gone on to my father.’ ’Thou wilt?’ Bernardo sat up, a towzled angel. In the interval the tears had come fast, and his face was wet. ’God help you all!’ he sobbed. ’You, even you, prevaricated to me. Whither shall I turn? I see everywhere a death-dealing wilderness, lies and lust and inhumanity.’ ’I prevaricated,’ said Cicada mournfully. ’I admit it. You once claimed my wit and experience to your tutoring. Well, do I not know the tyrant—the persistent devil in him? He had his teeth in that monk. Not Christ Himself would have loosened them.’ ’Ah! what shall I do?’ ’What, but go forward steadfast. This is but a jog by the way. Judge life on the broad lines of action, the ruts which mark the progress of the wheels. ’Tis a morbid sentiment that wastes itself on the quarrel between the wheels and the road.’ ’Ah, me! if I could but foresee the end of that bloody mire—the sweet, crisp path again! I can advance no further. My weak heart fails. I will go back to the wood.’ ’Then back, a’ God’s name, so I come too.’ Bernardo rose and seized the Fool’s hand, the tears streaming down his cheeks. ’This dreadful race—monsters all!’ he cried. ’Is there one kind deed recorded to its credit—one, one only, one little deed? Tell me, and if there is, by its memory I will persevere.’ ’Humph! Should I wish thee to? Think again of that wood.’ ’Tell me, kind, good Cicca, my nurse and friend.’ ’Go to! Shalt not put a bone in my throat. Well, they are monsters, but made by that same brute Circumstance thou decriest. "Wavering out of chaos," says you? Very like, sir; but, after all, Circumstance is our head artist in a tuneless world. What a dull sing-song ’twould be without him—league-long choirs of saints praising God—a universe of chirping crickets! With respect, sir, I, though his Fool, would not have him caged in my time.’ ’Alas, dear, for thine understanding! Love, that I would have depose him, is ten thousand times his superior in art—ay, and in humour. But go on.’ ’I doubt the humour. However, as things are, I owe to him, as do you, and Galeazzo—the Fool, the Saint, and the Monster. Could love conceive such a trio? But to the point. Hast ever heard speak of our Duke’s grand-dad?’ ’Muzio?’