The lowest
terrace of all was in better case. It was a well-planted and well-tended
orchard, where I got many a colic in my earlier days from a gluttony of
figs and peaches whose complete ripening I was too impatient to await.
I walked there, then, one morning quite early on the upper terrace
immediately under the castle wall, and alternately I read from the De
Civitate Dei which I had brought with me, alternately mused upon the matter
of my reading. Suddenly I was disturbed by a sound of voices just below
me.
The boxwood hedge, being twice my height and fully two feet thick, entirely
screened the speakers from my sight.
There were two voices, and one of these, angry and threatening, I
recognized for that of Rinolfo--Messer Giojoso's graceless son; the other,
a fresh young feminine voice, was entirely unknown to me; indeed it was the
first girl's voice I could recall having heard in all my eighteen years,
and the sound was as pleasantly strange as it was strangely pleasant.
I stood quite still, to listen to its expostulations.
"You are a cruel fellow, Ser Rinolfo, and Madonna the Countess shall be
told of this."
There followed a crackling of twigs and a rush of heavy feet.
"You shall have something else of which to tell Madonna's beatitude,"
threatened the harsh voice of Rinolfo.
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