“Why, fort is female, but—”
“But what?”
“The Signora’s brow is made for power, rather than love, fair as it is. She sees in Albornoz the prince, and not the lover. With what a step she sweeps the floor! it disdains even the cloth of gold!”
“Hark!” cried Giacomo, hastening to the lattice, “hear you the hoofs below? Ah, a gallant company!”
“Returned from hawking,” answered Angelo, regarding wistfully the cavalcade, as it swept the narrow street. “Plumes waving, steeds curvetting—see how yon handsome cavalier presses close to that dame!”
“His mantle is the colour of mine,” sighed Giacomo.
As the gay procession paced slowly on, till hidden by the winding street, and as the sound of laughter and the tramp of horses was yet faintly heard, there frowned right before the straining gaze of the pages, a dark massive tower of the mighty masonry of the eleventh century: the sun gleamed sadly on its vast and dismal surface, which was only here and there relieved by loopholes and narrow slits, rather than casements. It was a striking contrast to the gaiety around, the glittering shops, and the gaudy train that had just filled the space below. This contrast the young men seemed involuntarily to feel; they drew back, and looked at each other.
“I know your thoughts, Giacomo,” said Angelo, the handsomer and elder of the two. “You think yon tower affords but a gloomy lodgment?”
“And I thank my stars that made me not high enough to require so grand a cage,” rejoined Giacomo.
“Yet,” observed Angelo, “it holds one, who in birth was not our superior.”