I am the castellan,” he informed me.
“The castellan? But what of Messer Giorgio?”
“He died a month ago.”
“And who gave you this authority?”
“Madonna the Countess, in some recompense for the hurt you did me,” he replied, thrusting forward his lame leg.
His tone was surly and hostile; but it provoked no resentment in me now. I deserved his unfriendliness. I had crippled him. At the moment I forgot the provocation I had received—forgot that since he had raised his hand to his lord, it would have been no great harshness to have hanged him. I saw in him but another instance of my wickedness, another sufferer at my hands; and I hung my head under the rebuke implicit in his surly tone and glance.
“I had not thought, Rinolfo, to do you an abiding hurt,” said I, and here checked, bethinking me that I lied; for had I not expressed regret that I had not broken his neck?
I got down slowly and painfully, for my limbs were stiff and my feet very sore. He smiled darkly at my words and my sudden faltering; but I affected not to see.
“Where is Madonna?” I asked.
“She will have returned by now from chapel,” he answered.