'The Duchess! She is dying! Help!'
'The Duchess is ill? Where? Speak, in the name of God!' cried the Duke.
'In the Torre della Tesoreria.'
The Duke rushed from the hall, his golden chain rattling, his hair flying.
The Genius of the arch of true lovers went on blowing his trumpet, but now the dancers left him and he stopped. Some had followed the Duke—in a moment the whole brilliant throng had scattered like a flock of frightened sheep. The arch was overthrown and trampled, the trumpeter nearly fell, was hustled, and sprained his ankle.
Some cried 'Fire!'
'I said it was madness to play with fire,' wailed the lady who had disapproved Leonardo's rotating planets; and others fainted.
'Calm yourselves, ladies. There is no fire!' said the seneschal.
'Then what is it?'
'The Duchess is indisposed.'