As the last stroke of the Ave Maria faded on the wind that murmured
plaintively through the larches of the hillside, they piously crossed
themselves, and leisurely resuming their head-gear, they looked at one
another with questioning glances. Yet before any could voice the inquiry
that was in the minds of all, a knock fell upon the rotten timbers of the
door.

"At last!" exclaimed old Fabrizio da Lodi, in a voice charged with
relief, whilst a younger man of good shape and gay garments strode to the
door in obedience to Fabrizio's glance, and set it wide.

Across the threshold stepped a tall figure under a wide, featherless hat,
and wrapped in a cloak which he loosened as he entered, revealing the
very plainest of raiment beneath. A leather hacketon was tightened at
the waist by a girdle of hammered steel, from which depended on his left
a long sword with ringed, steel quillons, whilst from behind his right
hip peeped the hilt of a stout Pistoja dagger. His hose of red cloth
vanished into boots of untanned leather, laced in front and turned down
at the knees, and completed in him the general appearance of a mercenary
in time of peace, in spite of which the six nobles, in that place of
paradoxes, bared their heads anew, and stood in attitudes of deferential
attention.

He paused a moment to throw off his cloak, of which the young man who had
admitted him hastened to relieve him as readily as if he had been born a
servitor. He next removed his hat, and allowed it to remain slung from
his shoulders, displaying, together with a still youthful countenance of
surpassing strength and nobility, a mane of jet-black hair coiffed in a
broad net of gold thread--the only article of apparel that might have
suggested his station to be higher than at first had seemed.