The wind blew the unlatched window open, showing the city roofs and the wall distant and gray; then it fell-to again, leaving the chamber dull, almost dark, when a little later a footstep fell on the stair and the door was pushed open.
Tisio stepped in, peering around with vacant eyes. D'Orleans had lost his lute. Tisio remembered it left here. A heap of shimmering yellow satin caught his eye—yellow satin and a great rope of pearls. He marked it with vacant surprise, then, seeing the lute he sought for, made for it eagerly. He was proud to do these things. It pleased him to be so useful. He would not risk the page should find it. The lute lay near the bench against the wall, and, picking it up, Tisio noticed that some one sat there, some one very still and silent, against the cold white marble. He dropped the lute and came nearer. The chamber was utterly silent in the cold light, and the window was blowing to and fro with a dismal, sullen sound; but Tisio knew no ghostly terrors, he was not fearful of the dark.
He leaned over the figure eagerly, and when he knew it for Graziosa he was pleased. He liked her. That morning she had met him and seized his hands, and talked to him wildly, telling him with sobs something he could not understand. He thought it had to do with Gian.
Her head lay back against the purple cushion, and Tisio stroked it tenderly, fondling the beautiful bright curls that fell over the plain blue dress.
"Pretty thing!" he said gently. "Pretty thing!"
He had no remembrance how he had stroked that hair before, in the streets of Milan, in the sunshine.
She never moved under his touch, and something in the droop of her attitude struck him.
"She is sad," he thought, and with a change of tone he lifted one of her limp hands.
"Poor thing!" he said again. "Poor, pretty thing! Art thou sad, poor, pretty thing?"
She made no answer, and he laid her hand back on her lap tenderly, smoothing her dress, and whispering comfort in her unhearing ears.