“You are faint, Agostino,” cried Gervasio, with a sudden solicitude, and put an arm about my shoulders as I staggered.
“No, no,” said I. “It is nothing. Tell me—” And I paused almost afraid to put the question, lest the answer should dash my sudden hope. For it seemed to me that in this place of false miracles, one true miracle at least had been wrought; if it should be proved so indeed, then would I accept it as a sign that my salvation lay indeed in the world. If not...
“Tell me,” I began again; “this Cavalcanti has a daughter. She was with him upon that day when he came here. What is her name?”
Galeotto looked at me out of narrowing eyes.
“Why, what has that to do with anything?” quoth Gervasio.
“More than you think. Answer me, then. What is her name?”
“Her name is Bianca,” said Caleotto.
Something within me seemed to give way, so that I fell to laughing foolishly as women laugh who are on the verge of tears. By an effort I regained my self-control.
“It is very well,” I said. “I will ride with you to Pagliano.”
Both stared at me in utter amazement at the suddenness of my consent following upon information that, in their minds, could have no possible bearing upon the matter at issue.