and death. But the red hangman and his machines were grim touches for a puppet-show.
Olimpia Castaneve was brought forward first. She was more composed by now—the air, the sun, the cheerful colours of the court, had warmed her. She stood alone facing Borso. He, at first glance, remembered every shred of her; but he betrayed nothing. There was no one more blankly cool in this world than Borso on the judgment-seat.
"What is your name, mistress?"
"Magnificence, I am well known in Ferrara."
"Your name," thundered the Duke, "by the face of the sky!"
"Olimpia Castaneve."
"Did you cut off the head of the Captain of Lances, who was called Il Mosca?"
Olimpia was looking very handsome, and knew it.
"Magnificence," she said, "my hand is on my heart." It was.
"What the devil has that got to do with it?" asked Borso, looking about him for a reason.
"Serenity, if my heart were guilty, it would burn my hand. If my hand were red, it would soil my heart."
"Pouf!" said Borso, and puckered his face. "Stand back, Castaneve. Now for the little one. How are you called, baggage?"
Bellaroba shivered a very little, and looked solemn.
"Bellaroba, my lord."
"Very pretty; but I must have more."
