“The duke pardons me. Ah! well, now that I can speak without the look of cowardice and hope of mercy, I may tell the duke that his clemency has fallen on a man who doth deserve it. For thy father, surrounded by the enemy, would have died but for the arm of a poor adventurer.”
“The adventurer, good captain, was—”
“My very self.”
“Duke, duke,” lowly, and pulling his dress, “he saved thy father’s life—spare him.”
“The duchess speaks to me, but so lowly that I scarce can hear her. So thou didst save my father’s life—wilt follow his son’s standard?”
“Pardon me, I’m bound by oath to Venice, and oaths are binding.”
“Surely. Oaths are binding—is it not so, duchess? Well, well, good captain, take a golden present.”
“No, I am not rich, yet rich enough.”
“Thou art hard to please, fair captain. At least a draught of wine thou’lt drink with me. At last thou dost agree. The duchess, here, for once, will e’en turn cup-bearer. Nay, nay, nay, duchess, do not leave us; generous-minded thou hast been to him, and now be more so. Rustighello, bring us wine.” He almost towered higher than his actual stature, as he looked upon the suffering woman. “Place the cups there—for me the silver one—the golden to the captain. Now, duchess, pour, pour. Nay, nay, duchess, the golden vase and golden cup do go together, and silver to the silver. Now, mark, good captain, the duchess will bear the cup to thee herself.”
Slowly she takes the cup, slowly she carries it to the captain. And thus he holds it, wondering at the kindness of these people, whom he has always thought so harsh and full of hate.