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against the shutters of the unglazed windows, and the maid-servants, distaff in hand, crowded closer to the blaze, listening to the songs of some wandering fiddler or to the stories of a ruddy-nosed Capuchin, who was being regaled, by the steward’s orders, on a supper of tripe and mulled wine.

      The Capuchin’s tales, told in the Piedmontese jargon, and seasoned with strange allusions and boisterous laughter, were of little interest to Odo, who would creep into the ingle beside Bruno and beg for some story of his ancestors. The old man was never weary of rehearsing the feats and gestures of the lords of Donnaz, and Odo heard again and again how they had fought the savage Switzers north of the Alps and the Dauphin’s men in the west; how they had marched with Savoy against Montferrat and with France against the republic of Genoa. Better still he liked to hear of the Marquess Gualberto, who had been the Duke of Milan’s ally and had brought home the great Milanese painter to adorn his banqueting-room at Donnaz. The lords of Donnaz had never been noted for learning, and Odo’s grandfather was fond of declaring that a nobleman need not be a scholar; but the great Marquess Gualberto, if himself unlettered, had been the patron of poets and painters and had kept learned clerks to write down the annals of his house on parchment painted by the monks. These annals were locked in the archives, under Don Gervaso’s care; but Odo learned from the old servant that some of the great Marquess’s books had lain for years on an upper shelf in the vestry off the chapel; and here one day, with Bruno’s aid, the little boy dislodged from a corner behind the missals and altar-books certain sheepskin volumes clasped in blackened silver. The comeliest of these, which bore on their title-page a dolphin curled about an anchor, were printed in unknown characters; but on opening the smaller volumes Odo felt the same joyous catching of the breath as when he had stepped out on the garden-terrace at Pianura. For here indeed were gates leading to a land of delectation: the country of the giant Morgante, the enchanted island of Avilion, the court of the Soldan and the King’s palace at Camelot.

      In this region Odo spent many blissful hours. His fancy ranged in the wake of heroes and adventurers who, for all he knew, might still be feasting and fighting north of the Alps, or might any day with a blast of their magic horns summon the porter to the gates of Donnaz. Foremost among them, a figure towering above even Rinaldo, Arthur and the Emperor Frederic, was that Conrad, father of Conradin, whose sayings are set down in the old story-book of the Cento Novelle, “the flower of gentle speech.” There was one tale of King Conrad that the boy never forgot: how the King, in his youth, had always about him a company of twelve lads of his own age; how, when Conrad did wrong, his governors, instead of punishing him, beat his twelve companions; and how, on the young King’s asking what the lads were being punished for, the pedagogues replied, “For your Highness’s offences.”

      “And why do you punish my companions instead of me?”

      “Because you are our lord and master,” he was told.

      At this the King fell to thinking; and thereafter, it is said, in pity for those who must suffer in his stead he set close watch on himself, lest his sinning should work harm to others. This was the story of King Conrad; and much as Odo loved the clash of arms and joyous feats of paladins championing fair damsels, yet Conrad’s seemed to him, even then, a braver deed than these.

      In March of the second year the old Marquess, returning from Turin, was accompanied, to the surprise of all, by the fantastical figure of an elderly gentleman in the richest travelling dress, with one of the new French toupets, a thin wrinkled painted face, and emitting with every movement a prodigious odor of millefleurs. This visitor, who was attended by his French barber and two or three liveried servants, the Marquess introduced as the lord of Valdù, a neighboring seigneurie of no great account. Though his lands marched with the Marquess’s it was years since the Count had visited Donnaz, being one of the King’s chamberlains and always in attendance on his Majesty; and it was amazing to see with what smirks and grimaces, and ejaculations in Piedmontese French, he complimented the Marchioness on her appearance, and exclaimed at the magnificence of the castle, which must doubtless have appeared to him little better than a cattle-grange. His talk was unintelligible to Odo, but there was no mistaking the nature of the glances he fixed on Donna Laura, who, having fled to her room on his approach, presently descended in a ravishing new sacque, with an air of extreme surprise, and her hair curled (as Odo afterward learned) by the Count’s own barber.

      Odo had never seen his mother look handsomer. She sparkled at the Count’s compliments, embraced her father, playfully readjusted her mother’s coif, and in the prettiest way made their excuses to the Count for the cold draughts and bare floors of the castle. “For having lived at court myself,” said she, “I know to what your excellency is accustomed, and can the better value your condescension in exposing yourself, at this rigorous season, to the hardships of our mountain-top.”

      The Marquess at this began to look black, but seeing the Count’s pleasure in the compliment, contented himself with calling out for dinner, which, said he, with all respect to their visitor, would stay his stomach better than the French kick-shaws at his Majesty’s table. Whether the Count was of the same mind it was impossible to say, though Odo could not help observing that the stewed venison and spiced boar’s flesh seemed to present certain obstacles either to his jaws or his palate, and that his appetite lingered on the fried chicken-livers and tunny-fish in oil; but he cast such looks at Donna Laura as seemed to declare that for her sake he would willingly have risked his teeth on the very cobblestones of the court. Knowing how she pined for company, Odo was not surprised at his mother’s complaisance; yet wondered to see the smile with which she presently received the Count’s half-bantering disparagement of Pianura. For the duchy, by his showing, was a place of small consequence, an asylum of superannuated fashions; whereas no Frenchman of quality ever visited Turin without exclaiming on its resemblance to Paris and vowing that none who had the entrée of Stupinigi need cross the Alps to see Versailles. As to the Marquess’s depriving the court of Donna Laura’s presence, their guest protested against it as an act of overt disloyalty to the sovereign; and what most surprised Odo, who had often heard his grandfather declaim against the Count as a cheap jackanapes that hung about the court for what he could make at play, was the indulgence with which the Marquess received his visitor’s sallies. Father and daughter in fact vied in amenities to the Count. The fire was kept alight all day in his rooms, his Monsù waited on with singular civility by the steward, and Donna Laura’s own woman sent down by her mistress to prepare his morning chocolate.

      Next day it was agreed that the gentlemen should ride to Valdù; but its lord being as stiff-jointed as a marionette, Donna Laura, with charming tact, begged to be of the party, and thus enabled him to attend her in her litter. The Marquess thereupon called on Odo to ride with him; and setting forth across the mountain they descended by a long defile to the half-ruined village of Valdù. Here for the first time Odo saw the spectacle of a neglected estate, its last penny wrung from it for the absent master’s pleasure by a bailiff who was expected to extract his pay from the sale of clandestine concessions to the tenants. Riding beside the Marquess, who swore under his breath at the ravages of the undyked stream and the sight of good arable land run wild and choked with underbrush, the little boy obtained a precocious insight into the evils of a system which had long outlived its purpose; and the idea of feudalism was ever afterward embodied for him in his glimpse of the peasants of Valdù looking up sullenly from their work as their suzerain and protector thrust an unfamiliar painted smile between the curtains of his litter.

      What his grandfather thought of Valdù (to which the Count on the way home referred with smirking apologies as the mountain-lair of his barbarous ancestors) was patent enough even to Odo’s undeveloped perceptions; but it would have required a more experienced understanding to detect the motive that led the Marquess, scarce two days after their visit, to accord his daughter’s hand to the Count. Odo felt a shock of dismay on learning that his beautiful mother was to become the property of an old gentleman whom he guessed to be of his grandfather’s age, and whose enamoured grimaces recalled the antics of her favorite monkey, and the boy’s face reflected the blush of embarrassment with which Donna Laura imparted the news; but the children of that day were trained to a passive acquiescence, and had she informed him that she was to be chained in the keep on bread and water Odo would have accepted the fact with equal philosophy. Three weeks afterward his mother and the old Count were married