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 grain in the wind, for my lady was not of San Moglio. A peace offering of Barga to us, the living symbol of Barga's good faith, she had come here a young bride, a lovely white thing, silent and proud, and as Count Bartolommeo had warmed her in the fire of his love she had warmed toward San Moglio.

None of our household knew what had changed her from fire to ice toward him. But changed she was, and the city knew it; and since then it seemed that her heart was ever tugging and straining up toward the Bargese heights. And who knew what her friendship with Mazzaleone might portend for San Moglio?

She walked slowly around the assembly, flashing her laughter here and there, at her ease with Mazzaleone. Before Count Bartolommeo she paused, and I of many heard her say:

"I knew him when I was but a little maid . . . in my father's house—he was there with a broken wrist. I called him 'the lean man Egidio,' and knew no other name." And Bartolommeo joined them in their walk, he also at his ease and smiling.

And then there happened a strange thing.