But the brave spirit survived. In a day or two she was well again, as if she could not believe that God did not mean her to be content and glad in His sight. "So, smiling as at first went she." She was filled to the brim with energy; there never was such a wife as she would have made for a shepherd, a miner, a huntsman--and this huntsman, who has _had_ a beloved wife, knows what he is saying. "She was active, stirring, all fire-- Could not rest, could not tire-- To a stone she might have given life! . . . And here was plenty to be done, And she that could do it, great or small, She was to do nothing at all." For the castle was crammed with retainers, and the Duke's plan permitted a wife, at most, to meet his eye with the other trophies in the hall and out of it: "To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen At the proper place, in the proper minute, And die away the life between." The little Duchess, with her warm heart and her smile like the Italian girl's that "went everywhere," broke every rule at first. It was amusing enough (the old huntsman remembers)--but for the grief that followed after. For she did not submit easily. Having broken the rules, she would find fault with them! She would advise and criticise, and "being a fool," instruct the wise, and deal out praise or blame like a child. But "the wise" only smiled. It was as if a little mechanical toy should be contrived to make the motion of striking, and brilliantly _make_ it. Thus, as a mechanical toy, was the only way to treat this minute critic, for like the Duke at Ferrara, this Duke (and his mother) did not choose to stoop. _He_ would merely wear his "cursed smirk" as he nodded applause, but he had some trouble in keeping off the "old mother-cat's claws." "So the little lady grew silent and thin, Paling and ever paling." _Then all smiles stopped together_ . . . And the Duke, perceiving, said to himself that it was done to spite him, but that he would find the way to deal with it. Like the envoy, our huntsman's friend is beginning to find the tale a little more than he can stand--but, unlike the envoy, he can express himself. The old man soothes him down: "Don't swear, friend!" and goes on to solace him by telling how the "old one" has been in hell for many a year, "And the Duke's self . . . you shall hear." + + + + + "Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, A drinking-hole out of the fresh, tender ice," it chanced that the Duke, asking himself what pleasures were in season (he would never have known, unless "the calendar bade him be hearty"), found that a hunting party was indicated: "Always provided, old books showed the way of it!"