There was nothing _rosse_, non-moral
about the Renaissance Italian. The women were strongly tempered.
I love to believe the story told by Machiavelli and Muratori of
Catherine Sforza in the citadel of Forli. "Surrender or we slay
your children which we hold as hostages," cried the besiegers.
"Kill them if you like. I can breed more to avenge them." It is
the speech of a giant nature. It awakens something enthusiastic
within me; although such a lady would be an undesirable helpmeet
for a mild mannered man like myself.
And then again there is Bonna, the woman for whose career I
desired to consult the prime authority Cristoforo da Costa. I
have been sketching her into my chapter tonight. Here is a
peasant girl caught up to his saddle-bow by a condottiere,
Brunoro, during some village raid. She fights like a soldier by
his side. He is imprisoned in Valencia by Alfonso of Naples,
languishes in a dungeon for ten years. And for ten years Bonna
goes from court to court in Europe and from prince to prince,
across seas and mountains, unwearying, unyielding, with the
passion of heaven in her heart and the courage of hell in her
soul, urging and soliciting her man's release.
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