"Only you must promise me one thing," continued the duke. "Whoever I marry, be she duchess or beggar, old or young, ugly or handsome, not one of you must find fault with her, but welcome her as my wife, and your honored lady."
All the courtiers, recovering from their surprise, cried out, "We will; we promise."
Thereupon, all the court who were standing about gave a loud cheer; and the little page, who held the horse's bridle, tossed up his cap, and turned two double somersaults on the pavement of the court-yard. Then the duke leaped into his saddle, humming a song of how King Cophetua wooed a beggar maid; tootle-te-tootle went the huntsmens' bugles; clampety-clamp went the horses' hoofs on the stones, and out into the green forest galloped the royal hunt.
Now, in the farther border of the wood was a little hut which the hunting-train passed by daily. In this little cottage lived an old basketmaker named Janiculo, with his only daughter Griselda, the child of his old age. He had also a son Laureo, who was a poor scholar in Padua, studying hard to get money enough to make himself a priest. But Laureo was nearly always away, and Griselda took care of her father, kept the house, and wove baskets with her slender, nimble fingers, to sell in the town close by.
I cannot tell you in words of the loveliness of Griselda. She was as pure as the dew which gemmed the forest, as sweet-voiced as the birds, as light-footed and timid as the deer which started at the hunters' coming. Then her heart was so tender and good, she was so meek and gentle, that to love her was of itself a blessing; and to be in her presence was like basking in the beams of the May sun.
This morning she and her father sat under the tree by their cottage door, as the hunting-train passed by. They were weaving baskets; and, as they worked, they sang together.
As the hunting party swept by, Griselda looked up, and noted again, as had happened several mornings before, that the penetrating eyes of the handsome duke were fixed on her.
"I fear he is angry that we sit so near his path," mused Griselda.
"How his eyes look into one's soul. His gaze really makes me tremble.
I will not sit here on his return, lest it be displeasing to him."
Before the hunt was fairly out of sight, a gossiping neighbor came to the hut of Janiculo, to tell the good news. Now, indeed, the duke was really going to wed. He had promised to bring a wife with him when he came back from the hunt. People said he had ridden into the next province, to ask the hand of the duke's beautiful daughter in marriage. And it might be depended on he would bring the bride home on the milk-white palfrey, which one of his squires had led by a silver bridle.
It was almost sunset when the trampling of hoofs told Griselda that the hunting party were coming back; and remembering what the talkative neighbor had said, she thought she would like to take a peep at the young bride when they passed on their way to the palace. She had just been to the well for some water, and she stood in the doorway, with her bare, round arm poising the earthen pitcher on her head, and the rosy toes of her little bare feet peeping from beneath her brown gown, to watch the hunt go by.