Then I groaned miserably and took my head in my hands. “Whither am I to go?” I cried. “What place is there in all the world for me? I am an outcast. My very home is held against me. Whither, then, shall I go?”
“If that is all that troubles you,” said Galeotto, his tone unctuously humorous, “why we will ride to Pagliano.”
I leapt at the word—literally leapt to my feet, and stared at him with blazing eyes.
“Why, what ails him now?” quoth he.
Well might he ask. That name—Pagliano—had stirred my memory so violently, that of a sudden as in a flash I had seen again the strange vision that visited my delirium; I had seen again the inviting eyes, the beckoning hands, and heard again the gentle voice saying, “Come to Pagliano! Come soon!”
And now I knew, too, where I had heard words urging my return to the world that were of the same import as those which Gervasio used.
What magic was there here? What wizardry was at play? I knew—for they had told me—that it had been that cavalier who had visited me, that man whose name was Ettore de' Cavalcanti, who had borne news to them of one who was strangely like what Giovanni d'Anguissola had been. But Pagliano had never yet been mentioned.
“Where is Pagliano?” I asked.
“In Lombardy—in the Milanes,” replied Galeotto.
“It is the home of Cavalcanti.”