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No sooner had Count Nicolotto regained his strong town than a shocking rumour spread round Lapo Cercamorte had made Raffaele Muti's skin into a vest, with which to drive his wife mad.
When he halted before those two they seemed to feel the heat that seethed in his steel-bound breast. His disfigured face still insolvable, Lapo Cercamorte plunged his stare into Madonna Gemma's eyes, then looked into the eyes of Raffaele. His hoarse voice broke the hush; he said to the young man: "So you are the sister of my friend Count Nicolloto?"
Round the Big Hornets' Nest the crows were thicker than ever. One cold, foggy evening Lapo Cercamorte at last pushed open his wife's chamber door. Madonna Gemma was alone, wrapped in a fur-lined mantle, warming her hands over an earthen pot full of embers. Standing awkwardly before her, Lapo perceived that her beauty was fading away in this unhappy solitude.
But before the dais the wave paused, since in it were those who could not forego the joy of taunting Lapo Cercamorte before killing him. So suddenly, all his antagonists contemplated him in silence, as he crouched above them with his sword and shield half raised, his very armour seeming to emanate force, cunning, and peril. "Foul monster!" a muffled voice shouted. "Now you come to your death!"
Indeed, she seemed oblivious of all his efforts to change her. He left her alone. Finally, whenever Lapo Cercamorte met her in the hall his face turned dark and bitter. Throughout the meal there was no sound except the growling of dogs among the bones beneath the table, the hushed voices of the soldiers eating in the body of the hall.
The masses in the courtyard, inhuman-looking in their ponderous, barrel-shaped helmets, surged forward at the keep with a thunderous outcry: "Grangioia! Grangioia! Havoc on Cercamorte!" "Muti! Muti! Havoc on Cercamorte!" "God and the Monfalcone!" "Strike for Zaladino! Havoc on Cercamorte!" Lapo bared his teeth at them. "By the Five Wounds! half of Lombardy seems to be here.
Certainly I did not expect affection from you at the first, but hoped that it might ensue. So even Lapo Cercamorte became a flabby fool, when he met one in comparison with whom all other women seemed mawkish. Since it was such a fit of drivelling, let us put an end to it. At sunrise the horses will be ready. Good night." Leaving her beside the dying embers, he went out upon the ramparts.
"Whoever that zany is, he shall not dance at our funeral. Just one more shot, my Lapo. You shall see that I still have it in me." Cercamorte could not deny him this last whim. He found and strung a bow, and chose a Ghibelline war-arrow. Behind them, young Foresto drew in his breath with a hiss, laid his hand on his dagger, and turned the colour of clay.
"How is it with you?" puffed Lapo, putting his arm round Baldo's neck. "They have wrecked my belly for me. I am finished." Lapo Cercamorte hung his head and sobbed, "My old Baldo, my comrade, it is my folly that has killed you." "No, no. It was only that I had survived too many tussles; then all at once our Lord recalled my case to his mind. But we have had some high times together, eh?"
Well, my Baldo, before they make an end of us shall we show them some little tricks?" "You have said it, Cercamorte. One more good scuffle, with a parade of all our talent." The assailants tried beams against the keep gate; the defenders shot them down or hurled rocks upon their heads. But on the wall of the keep Cercamorte's half-clad men fell sprawling, abristle with feathered shafts.
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