And hers was a manner against which that strong man, my father, never could prevail.

She would stand before him white-faced and mute, never presuming to return an answer to his pleading or to enter into argument.
"I have vowed," she would say, just once; and thereafter, avoiding his fiery glance, she would bow her head meekly, fold her hands, the very incarnation of long-suffering and martyrdom.
Anon, as the storm of his anger crashed about her, two glistening lines would appear upon her pallid face, and her tears--horrid, silent weeping that brought no trace of emotion to her countenance--showered down.

At that he would fling out of her presence and away, cursing the day in which he had mated with a fool.
His hatred of these moods of hers, of the vow she had made which bade fair to deprive him of his son, drove him ere long to hatred of the cause of it all.

A ghibelline by inheritance, he was not long in becoming an utter infidel, at war with Rome and the Pontifical sway.
Nor was he one to content himself with passive enmity.

He must be up and doing, seeking the destruction of the thing he hated.