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.
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