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Updated: June 20, 2025
On the cricket's back, with a straw and white paint, he traced the Muti device a tree transfixed by an arrow. Then he put the cricket into a little iron box together with a rose, and gave the box to a man-at-arms, saying: "Ride to Lapo Cercamorte and deliver this into his hands." Next day, on the sunny tower, high above the hillside covered with spring flowers, Raffaele resumed his song.
So Baldo led the sorcerer to Cercamorte, and for a long while those two talked together in private. Next day Madonna Gemma noted that Lapo had on a new, short, sleeveless surcoat, or vest, of whitish leather, trimmed on its edges with vair, and laced down the sides with tinsel.
But suddenly Lapo Cercamorte was gayer than he had been since the fall of Grangioia Castle. Every morning, when he had inquired after Madonna Gemma's health, and had sent her all kinds of tidbits, he went down to sit among his men, to play morra, to test swordblades, to crack salty jokes, to let loose his husky guffaw.
And Raffaele, for all his youth no novice at this game, believed that this dove, too, was fluttering into his cage. By sunset their cheeks were flaming. At twilight their hands turned cold. Then they heard the bang of the gate and the croaking voice of Lapo Cercamorte.
With a gesture old Grangioia commanded his sons to sit still. After glowering round him at the wall of mail, he let his head sink down, and faltered: "Do you marry her, Cercamorte?" "Why not?" croaked Lapo. "Having just made a peace shall I give offence so soon? No, in this case I will do everything according to honour." That morning Lapo Cercamorte espoused Madonna Gemma Grangioia.
Of these castles the Marquis Azzo himself sacked and burned many. But against the castle of Grangioia, remote in the hills, he sent his captain, Lapo Cercamorte. This Lapo Cercamorte was nearly forty years old, a warrior from boyhood, uncouth, barbaric, ferocious. One could think of no current danger that he had not encountered, no horror that he had not witnessed.
In Cercamorte's castle, dice-throwing and drinking gave place to drinking and plotting. Strange messengers appeared. In an upper chamber a shabby priest from the nearest town the stronghold of Count Nicolotto Muti neatly wrote down, at Lapo's dictation, the tally of available men, horses, and arms. Then one morning Cercamorte said to Baldo, his lieutenant: "I am off for a talk with Nicolotto Muti.
Baldo, clinging to the casement-sill on bending legs, summoned Cercamorte to look at the dancing figure. "What is it, Lapo? A devil?" "One of our guests, no doubt," said Cercamorte, dashing the tears from his eyes. "Hark! the door at the foot of the staircase has fallen. Now we come to our parting, old friend." "Give me a bow and an arrow," cried Baldo, with a rattle in his throat.
Between them those two dragged him down to Madonna Gemma's chamber, stripped him, tended his wounds, and hoisted him into the bed. Flat on his back, Cercamorte fought over all his battles. He quarrelled with Baldo. Again he pondered anxiously outside of Madonna Gemma's door.
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