It was towards dusk of a summer evening when the legate, in a
litter slung in line between two mules, entered Coimbra. He was
attended by two nephews, Giannino and Pierluigi da Corrado, both
patricians of Rome, and a little knot of servants. Empanoplied in
his sacred office, the cardinal had no need of the protection of
men-at-arms upon a journey through god-fearing lands.
He was borne straight to the old Moorish palace where the Infante
resided, and came upon him there amid a numerous company in the
great pillared hall. Against a background of battle trophies,
livid weapons, implements of war, and suits of mail both Saracen
and Christian, with which the bare walls were hung, moved a
gaily-clad, courtly gathering of nobles and their women-folk,
when the great cardinal, clad from head to foot in scarlet,
entered unannounced.
Laughter rippled into silence. A hush descended upon the company,
which stood now at gaze, considering the imposing and unbidden
guest. Slowly the legate, followed by the two Roman youths,
advanced down the hall, the soft pad of his slippered feet and
the rustle of his silken robes being at first the only sound.
On he came, until he stood before the shallow dais, where in a
massively carved chair sat the Infante of Portugal, mistrustfully
observing him.
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