"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 glass 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 Duchess, 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 compassionate 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 Duchess in a low voice.
"It is impossible, at present," returned he, "to pronounce an opinion."
Cynthia opened her languid eyes, and seeing the Duchess's dress stained with her blood, mutely drew it to her lips. Giulia kindly patted her hand, saying—
"My poor girl! Keep quiet; be patient, and you will soon be well," and then withdrew.