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Nicolotto Muti was a thin, calm politician, elegant in his manners and speech, his lips always wearing a sympathetic smile. By the fireplace, after chatting of this and that, he remarked, with his hand affectionately on Cercamorte's knee: "I am trying to find trace of my little Raffaele, who has vanished like a mist. It is said that he was last seen in this neighbourhood.
And with his big hand suddenly he ripped open Raffaele's tunic half way to the waist, exposing the fair white flesh. The troubadour, though quivering with shame and rage, remained motionless, staring at the great sword that hung in its scarlet sheath from Lapo's harness. Old one-eyed Baldo, plucking his master by the elbow, whispered: "Take care, Cercamorte. His brother Nicolotto is your ally.
"And many a fare I pay to light the traghetto of San Nicolò; with an ave for the favor of the Blessed Mother to confound the scoundrel Castellani, who threw a good Nicolotto over the Ponte Senza Parapetti, in the last fight; and it cost us oil enough to light Venice for a year faith of San Nicolò! to keep them from winning at our regatta maledetti!"
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.
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.
Because he was the young brother of Nicolotto Muti they admitted him into the castle. His countenance was effeminate, fervent, and artful. The elegance of his manner was nearly Oriental. The rough soldiers grinned in amusement, or frowned in disgust. Madonna Gemma, confronted by his strangeness and complexity, neither frowned nor smiled, but looked more wan than ever.
Nicolotto Muti made a deprecatory gesture, then rose with a rustle of his green and yellow scallops, from which was shaken a fragrance of attar. "My good friend, let us hope so." It was Foresto who, in the courtyard held Muti's stirrup, and secretly pressed into the visitor's hand a pellet of parchment. For Foresto could write excellent Latin.
"With my token thou canst command the loyalty of every Nicolotto is it thine oar that made that rustle? and perchance, if there were a rising of the traghetti to demand aught of the Signoria come nearer, Antonio! the Castellani also, if they willed to join with their traghetti in asking for justice would not serve under my token the less heartily for the word, confided low to their bancali dost understand? that if their taxes and their fines oppress them, these also, I being free, will pay this year to the maledetto Avvogadoro del Commun."
One morning a horseman in green and yellow scallops appeared before the castle. It was Count Nicolotto Muti, elder brother of the troubadour Raffaele. Lapo, having arranged his features, came down to meet the count. They kissed, and entered the keep with their arms round each other's shoulders. Foresto brought in the guest-cup.
But all this does not find me my brother." And with a sad, gentle smile Count Nicolotto closed his frosty eyes. Cercamorte, despite all this cooing, received an impression of enmity. As always when danger threatened, he became still and wary, much more resourceful than ordinarily, as if perils were needed to render him complete.
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