“This escutcheon,” said I, “is the shield that shall stand between us and danger from any of the house that bears these arms.”
Thus I convinced and wrought upon them until they were ready to obey me—the more ready since any alternative was really to be preferred to their present situation. In danger they already stood from those that followed as they well knew; and now it seemed to them that by obeying one who was armed with such credentials, it might be theirs to escape that danger. But even as I was convincing them, by the same arguments was I sowing doubts in the lady’s subtler mind.
“You are attached to that house?” quoth she, in accents of mistrust. She wanted to say more. I saw it in her eyes that she was wondering was there treachery underlying an action so singularly disinterested as to justify suspicion.
“Madonna,” said I, “if you would save yourself I implore that you will trust me. Very soon your pursuers will be appearing on those heights, and then your chance of flight will be lost to you. I will ask you but this: Did I propose to betray you into their hands, could I have done better than to have left you with your grooms?”
Her face lighted. A sunny smile broke on me from her heavenly eyes.
“I should have thought of that,” said she. And what more she would have added I put off by urging her to mount.
Sitting the man’s saddle as best she might—well enough, indeed, to fill us all with surprise and admiration—she took her leave of me with pretty words of thanks, which again I interrupted.
“You have but to follow the road,” said I, “and it will bring you straight to Cagli. The distance is a short league, and you should come there safely. Farewell, Madonna!”
“May I not know,” she asked at parting, “the name of him that has so generously befriended me?”
I hesitated a second. Then—“They call me Boccadoro,” answered I.