turned her.

"Magnificence, I must, I must, I must!" She wailed, and fell a heap to
the ground. Bellaroba covered her eyes. Teofilo Calcagnini shook the
tears from his. Borso sat on immovably, working his jaws.

It is at this point that the conduct of Angioletto touches the
sublime--a position never accorded by posterity to his verse. It proves
him, nevertheless, the greater artist to this extent, that he was
equally the slave of the Idea, though working in more intractable stuff:
himself, namely; his own little heart throbbing in his own young body.
Therefore he deserves well of posterity, which finds his verses thin.
Said Angioletto: "Yes, Bellaroba is my adorable wife, loved beyond all
women, deserving beyond all price. Yet if she killed the Captain she is
guilty of death, and the sentence is just whoever perform it. And if,
being guiltless, she is hanged by the guilty, the action will glorify
her; for it is the price she pays for clean hands."

Then, in the midst of that waiting assembly, he called the girl to him
by her name, took her face in both his hands and kissed it very
tenderly, smiling all the time through his quick tears.

"My dear little heart," said he, "your husband is proud of you. All that
you have done is admirable in this black business. In a very short time
I shall see you again. Though it is a higher flight than the Schifanoia
chimney, it is quicker done. Trust me, Bellaroba; you know I have never
failed you yet."

He could say no more, but took her in his arms and held her there,
speechless as he was with inspiration. She, seeming to burn in the fire
that consumed him, lay quite still, neither sobbing any more, nor
shivering. So they clung together for a little. Then Angioletto lifted
up his face from her cheek, and put her gently away from him.

"Let justice be done, Excellency," he called out in his shrill boy's
voice, "we have said our say to each other."

Borso spoke.

"Justice shall be done. The innocent has condemned the guilty: let that
woman be hanged. We have learned the value of clean hands this day.
Mistress Bellaroba, you have a man in ten thousand; Angioletto, my
friend, you have what you deserve, a woman in ten million. It is not
fair that the worth of you two should be known only to me and the
Blessed Virgin; you shall tell it now to a priest. Come along, and let
me have the whole story with my breakfast."

Thus Duke Borso did judgment for his good town of Ferrara in tim