Adventure Magazine Cover — page 160: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

154 compromises of life as the heaven is above the earth, shamed me and raised my heart; there was a great flood of joy in me, and I wit well that as I kissed her hand, there were tears In mine eyes. ‘“‘Let us walk,”’ says she; and as we went, I stammered something of my unworthi- ness. “‘Ah, Francesco,” says she, “‘it is the wo- man’s part to dream of perfection; the man’s to realize it in life; and if the dream doth outstrip the reality, ’tis only because the soul doth outstrip the body. To dream is naught—as I have known these years past; to dream and to carry out the dream as far as may be, is salvation.” “Which we will seek together,” says I. “Which we will find together,’”’ says she softly. ‘Body and soul!” Indeed, meseemed that theretofore, I had been but a dead man; nay, rather, alive, but without life; moving, but without purpose or direction; conscious, but without con- sclousness of aught that mattered. I thought, as we walked further in silence, that hitherto I had eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, but those fruits that were of Evil, and found them main bitter and of no nourishment. Now was I eating of the knowledge of Good; and though it might kill me, yet did it seem sweet, and strength- ening food. Aye, aye. Even so was I exalted—to the making of a new botany for the Garden of Eden. I would have rewritten the Scriptures, to ac- cord with her— For another week, even, trying to rise above my fleshly apprehensions to her state of the spirit (what time the food ran low, and the sentries grew less and less watchful at their posts) I scarce thought of that horseman who had departed from Roberto to the duke; or, if I thought of him, did as sure myself that the duke would not come. But of course, come he did, horse, foot, and artillery; on the very day after my sergeant cannoneer had at last sent a ball into Roberto’s tent and thrown the count fifty paces into a ditch, with the tent-stuff wrapped about him for a shroud. I have since heard that the duke spoke much of his virtue in coming, and more of the Provi- dence that rewarded this virtue, upon his arrival. By this he meant (as regarded the virtue) that, having said he could not leave F. R. Buckley his campaign when the raising of our siege and the saving of our lives was in question, he had left it readily to safeguard his own renown, which he thought menaced by his sister’s conduct. And the award of Provi- dence was this, he thought; that Roberto was dead; the castle therefore his; and that, with his honor for excuse, he could hang me, instead of paying me. Unluckily, the réle he was to play, played him; instead of speaking fair words, getting the gates opened, and taking up this matter of Jesa majestas later (such was my state of spirituality, that I might have believed he was come to raise the siege)—he rode up to the walls with an escort of fifty, and called me a lecherous dog. This reminded me that I was a soldier, and I answered him reasonably; saying that if he wished to capture me, he must act accordingly; during which action, I should do my best to have him made incapable of such capture. This angered him; because his own speech had lacked reason, asking me to leave my castle, and come and be hanged. “Then mark me!” yells Alessandro, shak- ing his fist in the torchlight toward the men- at-arms on the walls. ‘Your food is al- most gone; and if I must stay here and starve you forth, [’ll hang every one of your bawds of soldiers! I swear it!’’ This was an attempt to sow rebellion. “‘And I swear not one of them shall feel the rope,” I shouted in return. “Ah, your Highness, if they trust not my oath more than yours, at least, after this last campaign of your Grace, they have more confidence in my military ability.” He had mocked me, years before, on my lack of humor in that matter of Rosa Sal- viati; yet now, while all the men-at-arms guffawed at my little joke, he himself could not even smile; on the contrary, he snarled, swung his horse, galloped back to the camp; had us bombarded uselessly all night; and, in his rage, forgot to re-post the patrol to intercept messengers, which had ceased its duty in the confusion of his arrival. So, before another hour had passed, the man that had borne my message to the duke before, was gone with a letter to Matteo Scarlatti. “But—will Scarlatti come?” asked Anita, as we faced each other in her apartments, over the inkhorn and the scattered paper remaining from my writing. Co NOOK C©