Angioletto and his lady-love had been better exercised than to think of dukes. They had thought of religion.
They passed by the Schifanoia at a sober walk, regardless of the crowd.
"My heart," Angioletto said, "there is here what I suppose to be the most famous shrine in Romagna. I mean that of the Madonna degli Greci, a pompous image from Byzantium, which proceeded undoubtedly from the bottega of Saint Luke. If that Signore had been as indifferent a painter as he was great Saint (which is surely impossible), we should do well to visit his Madonna. Her holiness is past dispute; there are very few miracles which she could not perform if she chose. As well as burning a candle apiece before her face, we could lay our prayers and new love at her feet. Beyond question she will hear and bring us good luck. What do you think?"
"I think as you think, Angioletto," said Bellaroba, and held him closer.
"Let us go then. I know the way very well."
So they went to the tune which the young lad sang under his breath, and before long came to a piazza, not very broad, but flagged all over and set about with stately brick buildings, having on the left the stone front of a great church, tier upon tier of arches interlaced. The door of it was guarded by two stone lions, and above the porch was the figure of a buxom lady with a smile half saucy, half benevolent, to whom Angioletto doffed his cap.
"They call her Donna Ferrara," he explained. "This is the Duomo. Let us go in."
They dismounted; a lame boy held the mule; they entered the church.
It was very large, very dark, and nearly empty. Angioletto put his arm round Bellaroba's waist, and they began to pace the aisle in confidential talk.
"Where are you going to live in this place, Bellaroba?" he asked her.