After communicating to Barbarossa, Victor's promise of obedience, Dassel took his way towards the tent of Henry the Lion, to announce to the prince the speedy dissolution of his marriage. The Saxon Duke lodged in the Augustinian convent in front of the city. In spite of the decisions of the council of war, this cloister had been neither pillaged nor burned, for it stood in the midst of his camp, and served as his headquarters; and the demand for its destruction, urged by some of the Italians, had met with a stern refusal. "In the North," he said, "I spare neither time nor money in building churches and monasteries. Why should I consent to destroy them in the South? You must understand, once for all, that I will not do violence to my principles, in order to gratify your hatred for the Milanese." These words put an end to the discussion; the beautiful church was spared, but the anxious monks were driven to take shelter within the city. Ever since Henry had begun to entertain seriously the idea of a divorce, he had lost the air of frankness and good-nature which had formerly characterized him. He walked with downcast eyes, his brows were knit, his head stooped, and a heavy burden seemed to oppress his intellect. While Rinaldo urged the divorce, the Duke remained irresolute; his pride prompted him to the step, but his heart opposed it. A union of fifteen years had proved the sincere affection and unalterable fidelity of his wife, who lived only in her husband's love. He could not call to mind a single unkind word; Clemence, on the contrary, had always striven to make her husband forget his cares and anxieties. And even now, although well aware of this scheme for their separation, she never gave utterance to one murmur or reproach; all her efforts were directed to conceal her sadness and despair. But his wife's anguish was not unknown to the Duke. He admired the generous spirit of the noble woman, and it cost him many a heartache, to feel himself, as it were, compelled to do her such a cruel wrong. Had the Duchess reproached him with his injustice, the struggle would have been less difficult, but this mute sorrow, this submissive love disarmed him. It was in vain that he looked back over years long gone by, he could discover nothing worthy of dissatisfaction, for each succeeding year since their marriage gave new proofs of Clemence's affection and fidelity. Sad thoughts filled his mind as he sat beneath an arbor of clematis in the convent garden. His back leaning against the wall, his limbs stretched out and his hands clenched upon his breast, his haggard, downcast face denoted the painful struggle raging within him, which from time to time took vent in a deep sigh.