Part 4 (1/2)
MOORISH SLAVES.
A clatter of horses' feet in the court-yard announced the arrival of new guests; and when these proved to be n.o.ble kinsmen and friends of the d.u.c.h.ess, who had hastened to rally round her in her danger, the Cardinal inly congratulated himself on having been the first comer and the recipient of her first thanks.
The old feudal castle, lately the nest of a few defenceless women, now resounded with the clank of arms. Nothing could be more graceful than the d.u.c.h.ess's reception of her guests. There was just enough of danger past, and possibly impending, to give zest to present safety and sociality. The feast was spread in the old ancestral hall, where the family plate shone in beaufets ten feet high, music breathed from the gallery amid the pauses in conversation, and the cobwebbed banners waved heavily overhead in the cool evening air from the Mediterranean, that stole through the open windows. Giulia's little cloud had entirely disappeared: it was simple and even needful that she should just now only seek to embellish the pa.s.sing hour; and the Cardinal, as the n.o.blest dignitary present, fully seconded her as leader of the feast, or rather took the initiative in entertaining and pledging the rest, while she had only to sit by, smile, and enjoy it all. The Moorish girl, with splendid jewels in her ears, stood behind the d.u.c.h.ess with a feather fly-flapper.
Barbarossa's enormities were the favourite theme; there was plenty of red put in the brush. The streams of blood he had shed would float a squadron; his beard was bright scarlet. He was even worse than his brother Horuc had been; and now that he was Dey of Tunis, as well as of Algiers, and the ally of Solyman the Magnificent, the world would not hold him! He would swallow Italy, some of these nights, at a snap.
Yet it was astonis.h.i.+ng what some of the company were ready to do, single-handed, against him! Only let him come on! _They'd_ show him something. The d.u.c.h.ess need not be afraid. Not a hair of her head should he touch.
The next day or two these bold spirits scoured the neighbourhood, and--as Barbarossa was out of sight--they did not spare their bragging.
They only wished he would come back, that they might give him his deserts. The Cardinal grudged these vapourers their share of Giulia's ear. True, he sat at her right hand; and none of them were younger, braver, handsomer, or wittier than himself. And it was sweet, with all its mixture of bitter, to be here at all; but then, how soon it would end! How soon pa.s.s into that hungry, never-satisfied abyss of vanished, irreclaimable joys! And then his old feeling of blank, gnawing dissatisfaction returned.
”That Mauritanian slave of yours,” he said one day to Giulia, as they returned from a reconnoitering party, ”is singularly beautiful. She would make a good study for Sebastiano. How I wish you knew that remarkable man! You would delight in his musical attainments. He touches the lute and viol with rare perfection, and has composed some exquisite motets. As a portrait painter he is unrivalled. The Pope is so pleased with the likeness he has painted of him, that he has conferred on him the office of keeper of the papal signet. His verses are charming, and he is a most excellent companion.”
”You excite my curiosity,” said the d.u.c.h.ess. ”Cannot you invent some excuse to bring him here?”
”Certainly,” said the Cardinal, who was aiming at this very point.
”There could be no better method than for me to tell him you had promised me your picture. This would draw him hither quite easily, after such representations as I should make to him; for you must know, Sebastiano is becoming exceeding coy and difficult, and will only on much importunity be prevailed on, now, to paint a portrait. It is really the branch in which he excels, and by which he will be known to posterity; but he is slow and irresolute in his execution, and his taste chiefly inclines him to large historical pieces, in which he is excelled by Michael Angelo and Raffaelle. I beseech you, let me send him to paint your portrait. You will be repaid for your complaisance by becoming acquainted with a really great artist.”
”So let it be, then,” said the d.u.c.h.ess. ”With regard to my Moorish girl, he may introduce her in the background if he will. Beautiful she is, but the crossest patch at times! I pity her, and humour, and perhaps spoil her a little, yet I shrink from her sometimes, for we hardly seem of the same flesh and blood.”
”Is she converted?” inquired the Cardinal.
”Baptized,” said the d.u.c.h.ess, ”but she seems utterly unimpressible as to Christian doctrine. Confess she will not, and when we endeavour to enforce its obligation on her, she answers us in her Arabic jargon, 'I do not understand.'”
”Is it safe to have her about you?” said the Cardinal.
”I know not that there is any harm in her,” said the d.u.c.h.ess, ”and she can be very ingratiating when she likes; but I own, a horrible thought crossed my mind when she and I were escaping through the caverns. 'What if she should have brought Barbarossa on us?'”
”That is quite possible,” said the Cardinal, gravely. ”Has she any confederates hereabouts, think you, among her own people?”
”The only other Moor in my establishment is a poor boy whose tongue has been cut out. His own people thus punished him, when he fell into their hands, for having come over to us; he escaped from them, and knows too well his own interest to betray us. He is in my stables.”
”I do not altogether like this,” said De Medici, meditatively; ”it would be well to induce the girl to confess, even by a little wholesome torture; for as long as she is unshackeled by Christian obligations, you have no hold on her.”
”Torture, however,” said Giulia, ”is a course I particularly dislike.”
They were now riding into the castle court-yard; and, as the day was very warm, she was thirsty, and called for a gla.s.s of iced water. It was brought her by Cynthia; and at the moment she appeared with the goblet on a salver, a large Spanish bloodhound, belonging to Alfonso Gonzaga, sprang at her throat.
The poor girl screamed piercingly, and so did the d.u.c.h.ess, who sprang from her horse. Gonzaga, brutally laughing and swearing, called the dog off without success; but the Moorish stable-boy, seizing it by the tail, bit it till his teeth met. The unfortunate Cynthia was released, and she fell swooning into the arms of her compa.s.sionate mistress, whose dress was stained with her blood. She was instantly relieved of her burthen, however, by her _maestro di casa_, Perez, who bore her off to her women, while the hunting-party pressed round Giulia to extol her humanity to the skies. Turning to the Cardinal she said, expressively--
”She _is_ of the same flesh and blood, after all!” And then went to visit her poor wounded maiden, and change her dress.
Cynthia, more dead than alive, was laid on a pallet bed, and Caterina was in anxious attendance on her, while a Jewish physician dressed the wound.
”Do you think she will die?” said the d.u.c.h.ess in a low voice.
”It is impossible, at present,” returned he, ”to p.r.o.nounce an opinion.”
Cynthia opened her languid eyes, and seeing the d.u.c.h.ess's dress stained with her blood, mutely drew it to her lips. Giulia kindly patted her hand, saying--