There was a stir in the guardhouse, and two or three men of the absurd garrison my mother kept there shuffled in the doorway, whilst a burly fellow in leather with a sword girt on him thrust his way through and hurried forward, limping slightly. In the dark, lowering face I recognized my old friend Rinolfo, and I marvelled to see him thus accoutred. He halted before me, and gave me a stiff and unfriendly salute; then he bade the man-at-arms to hold my stirrup. “What is your authority here, Rinolfo?” I asked him shortly. I am the castellan,” he informed me. “The castellan? But what of Messer Giorgio?” “He died a month ago.” “And who gave you this authority?” “Madonna the Countess, in some recompense for the hurt you did me,” he replied, thrusting forward his lame leg. His tone was surly and hostile; but it provoked no resentment in me now. I deserved his unfriendliness. I had crippled him. At the moment I forgot the provocation I had received--forgot that since he had raised his hand to his lord, it would have been no great harshness to have hanged him. I saw in him but another instance of my wickedness, another sufferer at my hands; and I hung my head under the rebuke implicit in his surly tone and glance. “I had not thought, Rinolfo, to do you an abiding hurt,” said I, and here checked, bethinking me that I lied; for had I not expressed regret that I had not broken his neck? I got down slowly and painfully, for my limbs were stiff and my feet very sore. He smiled darkly at my words and my sudden faltering; but I affected not to see. “Where is Madonna?” I asked. “She will have returned by now from chapel,” he answered. I turned to the man-at-arms. “You will announce me,” I bade him. “And you, Rinolfo, see to these beasts and to this good fellow here. Let him have wine and food and what he needs. I will see him again ere he sets forth.” Rinolfo muttered that all should be done as I ordered, and I signed to the man-at-arms to lead the way. We went up the steps and into the cool of the great hall. There the soldier, whose every feeling had been outraged no doubt by Rinolfo's attitude towards his lord, ventured to express his sympathy and indignation. “Rinolfo is a black beast, Madonnino,” he muttered. “We are all black beasts, Eugenio,” I answered heavily, and so startled him by words and tone that he ventured upon no further speech, but led me straight to my mother's private dining-room, opened the door and calmly announced me. “Madonna, here is my Lord Agostino.” I heard the gasp she uttered before I caught sight of her. She was seated at the table's head in her great wooden chair, and Fra Gervasio was pacing the rush-strewn floor in talk with her, his hands behind his back, his head thrust forward.