his shame.

As it was, a diversion of a different order broke in upon the next song
which, so soon as he had picked up his nerve, he adventured. One of the
Maids of Honour looked quickly over her shoulder, and "Hist, Madama! The
Duke!" she said, with wide eyes and a blush.

The song ceased, the whole company, Lionella included, scrambled to
their feet. Duke Borso, his portly body swaying like a carriage on
springs, his hands behind him, and attended by a tall young man, very
splendid and very blonde, came across the grass towards them. Angioletto
could not decide whether to think him rogue or prude. His puckered face
twitched, his eyes twitched, his pursed-up lips worked together; it was
again as if he were struggling with a laugh. He wore his tall square cap
well off his forehead, and looked what he really was--a strong man
tired, but not yet tired out, of kindness. The benevolence seemed
inborn, seemed fighting through every seam of the pompous face.
"Madonna! his generous motions work him into creases, as if he were
volcanic soil," thought Angioletto. Watching him narrowly as he came, he
decided that this was a master to be loved if not admired, respected but
not feared. "I should get the worst of a bout with him," thought he;
"but I had rather it were with him than with Apollo." That title was
just, as the reflection shrewd. Teofilo Calcagnini would have made a
terrible tutor to Master Phaeton.

Duke Borso bowed shortly to the standing maids, and favoured Angioletto
with a keen eye before he set a hand on his daughter's shoulder. She
looked a pleased welcome as he began to stroke her hair. "Ah, they love
the man," thought Angioletto; "good!"

"Why, chick," said Duke Borso, "you are like a cage of singing-birds
scared by the cat."

"Your Grace shall judge whether we are too scared to sing," replied his
laughing daughter. "Come," she added, turning to Angioletto, "tune your
viol and pipe to it again, my little poet."

The Duke made a wry mouth. "Hey, I have no ear for music, my dear," said
he.

Angioletto was ready for him. "If your Magnificence will permit," he
said, "I will take care not to offend his honourable ear. I will say my
piece, with no more music than will serve to tie word to word. May it be
so, Magnificence? Have I liberty, Madam?" He bowed, smiling, from one to
the other of the great people.

He was a very courtly and charming little person, this Tuscan youth.
Above all he had a ready address