"What time the Greek, in days of yore,Bent down his own, fair work before,He woke the echoes of the groveWith words like these, 'Oh, could she love!'"Heaven heard the sculptor's wild desire;Love warmed the statue with its fire;But when he saw the marble move,He asked, still fearful, 'Will she love?'"She loved--she loved; and wilt thou beMore cold, Madonna, unto me?Then hear my song, and let me proveIf you can love--if you can love."
"Songs are false--men are falser, Lorenzo," answered Leonora, bending a little from the window: "you will sing that canzonetta to the next pretty eye you see."
"It will be Leonora's then," answered the youth. "Can you not come down, dear Leonora, and let me hear my fate under the olive-trees? I fear to tell you all I feel in this place, lest other ears should be listening. Oh! come down, for I must go hence by daybreak to-morrow."
"Oh! do not go so soon," murmured Leonora; "I will be down and on the terrace by daybreak; but to-night--no, no, Lorenzo, I cannot, for very maiden shame, come down to-night. There, take my glove, Lorenzo, and if I find you still wear it for my sake when next we meet, I shall know--and then, perhaps--perhaps I will tell you more. But there is some one coming--fly! fly!--the other way. He is coming from the east end of the terrace."
"I never turned my back on friend or foe," answered Lorenzo, turning to confront the new comer.
Leonora drew back from the window and put out the light, but she listened with eager ears. "It was very like my father's figure," she thought; "his height, his walk, but yet, methinks, stouter. Hark! that is not his voice--one of the servants, perhaps."
The next instant there was a clash of steel, and she ran anxiously to the window. At some twenty yards distance she saw Lorenzo, sword in hand, defending himself against a man apparently much more powerful than himself. For a moment or two she gazed, bewildered, and not knowing what to do. Lorenzo at first seemed to stand entirely on the defensive; but soon his blood grew hot, and, in answer to his adversary's lunge, he lunged again; but the other held a dagger in his left hand, and with it easily parried the blade. The next pass she saw her lover stagger. She could bear no more, and, running down, she screamed aloud to wake the servants, who slept near the hall. An old man, a porter, was still dozing in a chair, and started up, exclaiming:
"What is it; what is it, signorina?"
"Haste! haste! Bring your halbert!" cried Leonora, pulling back slowly the great heavy door, and running down the steps; "there is murder about."
She fancied she should behold Lorenzo already fallen before his more vigorous enemy; but, on the contrary, he was now pressing him hard with an agility and vigour which outweighed the strength of maturity on the part of the other. All was as clear in the bright moonlight as if the sun had been shining; and, as Leonora sprung forward, she beheld, or thought she beheld, her lover's assailant gain some advantage. Lorenzo was pressed back along the terrace towards the spot where she stood. He seemed to fly, though still with his face to his adversary, but he had been well disciplined to arms in Italy as well as France, and knew every art of defence or assault. The space between him and his foe increased till he nearly reached the young girl's side, and then, with a sudden bound, like that of a lion, he sprang upon his enemy and passed his guard. What followed Leonora could not see; it was all the work of a moment; but the next instant she beheld the elder man raise his hand as if to strike with his dagger, drop it again, and fall back heavily upon the terrace.
Lorenzo leaned upon his sword, and seemed seeking to recover breath, while Leonora ran up to him, asking, "Are you hurt; are you hurt, Lorenzo?"
Ere he could answer there were many people around them. No house in Italy was unaccustomed to such scenes in those days. Indeed, scenes much more terrible habituated everybody, servants, masters, retinue, to wake at the first call, and to have everything ready for resistance and defence. A number of the attendants poured forth from the door she had left open, some with useless torches lighted, some with arms in their hands. Then came her father, Ramiro d'Orco, and last, the old Count Rovera himself, while Blanche Marie appeared at the window above, eagerly asking what had befallen.
No one answered her, but the Signor d'Orco advanced calmly to the side of the fallen man, gazed at him for a moment, and then turned to Lorenzo, asking, "Is he dead?"
"I know not," replied the young man, sheathing his sword.
"Who is he?" demanded Ramiro again.
"Neither know I that," said the youth; "he attacked me unprovoked as I walked here upon the terrace in the moonlight; but I never saw his face before, that I know of."
"Walked and sang," answered Ramiro, drily. "Perhaps he did not like your music, Signor Visconti."
"Probably," replied the youth, quite calmly. "It was but poor, and yet not worth killing a man for. Besides, as it was not intended for him, but for a lady, it could give him no offence."
"Not quite clear logic that, good youth," answered Ramiro. "Do any of you know this man?" he continued, turning to the servants.
"Not I;" "not I," answered several; but the old Count of Rovera bent down his head toward the man's face, waving the rest away that the moonlight might fall upon him. "Why, this is Pietro Buondoni, of Ferrara;" he exclaimed; "an attendant on Count Ludovico, and a great favorite. What could induce him to attack you, Lorenzo?"
"I know not, sir," replied Lorenzo; "I never set eyes on him before. He called me a French hound, and, ere I could answer him, he had nearly run me through the body. I had hardly time to draw."
"Well, bear him in--bear him in," said the old lord; "though I judge from his look he will not attack any one again. Did I not see Leonora here?"
But by this time she was gone, and Lorenzo took care not to answer. As he followed the rest into the villa, however, he stooped to pick up something from the ground. What if it were a lady's glove!
The servants bore Buondoni into the great hall; but it was in vain they attempted for a moment or two to rouse him into consciousness again. There was no waking from the sleep that was upon him. Lorenzo's sword, thrust home, had passed through and through his body, piercing his heart as it went. Very different were the sensations of the different persons who gazed upon his great, powerful limbs and handsome face, as he lay in death before them. Ramiro d'Orco could hardly be said to feel anything. It was a sight which he had looked on often. Death, in the abstract, touched him in no way. To see a man take any one of his ordinary meals or die was the same to him. It was an incident in the world's life--no more. He had no weak sympathies, no thrilling sensibilities, no fanciful shudderings at the extinction of human life. A man was dead--that was all. In that man he had no personal interests. He knew him not. There had been no likelihood that he ever would know him; if anything, less probability that that man could ever have served him, and therefore there seemed nothing to regret. Neither had there been any chance that Buondini could ever have injured him, therefore there could be no matter for rejoicing; but yet, if anything, there was a curious feeling of satisfaction, rather than otherwise, in his breast. Death--the death of others--was a thing not altogether displeasing to him. He knew not why it was so, and perhaps it sometimes puzzled him, for he had been known to say, when he heard a passing-bell. "Well, there is one man less in the world! There are fools enough left."
Old men grow hardened to such things, and in the ordinary course of nature, as their own days become less and less, as life with them becomes more and more a thing of the past, they estimate the death of others, as they would estimate their own approaching fate, but lightly. The old Count Rovera looked with but very little feeling upon the dead man; but he thought of his young relation Lorenzo, and of what might be the consequences to him. At first, when he remembered that this man had been a great favourite with Ludovic the Moor, and thus another offence had been offered by a Visconti to a Sforza, he entertained some fears for the youth's safety. But then the recollection of the King of France's powerful protection gave him more confidence, and his sympathies went no farther.
The feelings of Lorenzo himself were very different; but as they were such as would be experienced by most young men unaccustomed to bloodshed in looking for the first time upon an enemy slain by their own hands, we need not dwell much upon them. There was the shuddering impression which the aspect of death always makes upon young, exuberant life. There was the natural feeling of regret at having extinguished that which we can never reillume. There was that curious, almost fearful inquiry which springs up in the thoughtful mind at the sight of the dead, when our eyes are not much accustomed to it, "What is life?"
While he was still gazing, one of the servants touched the old count's arm and whispered something to him, "Ha!" cried Rovera; "I am told, Lorenzo, you received a letter to-night, which was sent up to your room by one of your men, after we all parted. It was not a challenge, perchance? If so, you should have chosen some other place for your meeting than our terrace."
"It was not so, sir," replied Lorenzo, promptly. "I had no previous quarrel with the man. The letter was from his Majesty King Charles. Here it is; you can satisfy yourself."
"My eyes are dim," said the old man; "read it Ramiro."
The Lord of Orco took the paper, and read while one of the servants held a flambeau near.
"Well-beloved Cousin"--so ran the note--"It has pleased us to bestow on you the troop of our ordnance, become vacant by the death of Monsieur de Moustier. We march hence speedily, and the Seigneur de Vitry proceeds to-night toward Pavia. As he will not be able to depart till late in the day, we judge it best to advise you, in order to your preparation, that he will halt near the Villa Rovera for an hour to-morrow early, and that we expect you will accompany him on his march without delay. Fail not as you would merit our favour.
"Charles."
Ramiro read the letter aloud, and then, without any comment on the contents, remarked:
"You have left the impress of your thumb in blood upon the king's missive, Signor Visconti; you are wounded, mayhap."
"Ah! a scratch--a mere scratch in my right shoulder," answered Lorenzo; "I could not completely parry one of his first thrusts, and he touched me, but it is nothing."
"Oh, you are hurt, Lorenzo! you are hurt!" cried Bianca Maria, who had come down from her chamber, and was standing behind the little circle which had gathered round the dead man.
"Get you to bed, child!" said the old count sharply; "these are no matters for you. Your cousin has but a scratch. Get you to bed, girl, I say; this is a pretty pass, that two men cannot fight without having all the women in the house for witnesses!"
In the mean time Ramiro d'Orco had raised the left hand of the dead man, in which was still firmly clasped his poniard--his sword had fallen out of the right when he fell--and, taking a torch from one of the servants, he gazed along the blade.
"This dagger is grooved for poison, Conte," he said, addressing his host in the same quiet, indifferent tone he generally used; "better look to the young gentleman's wound."
"I thank you, sir," replied Lorenzo; "but it came from his sword, not his poniard. I will retire and let my men stanch the bleeding."
"Better, at all events, apply some antidote," said Ramiro; "a little parsley boiled will extract most poisons, unless they remain too long. It were well to attend to it speedily."
"Well, I will go," replied Lorenzo; "but, I call Heaven to witness, I have no blame in this man's death. He attacked me unprovoked, and I killed him in self-defence."
"We must take measures to discover how this came about," said the count, thoughtfully. "Buondoni cannot have come here unattended."
"Better perchance let it rest," said Ramiro d'Orco, "there may be motives at the bottom of the whole affair that were not well brought to the surface. I have gathered little from tonight's discourse of this youth's history; but he is a Visconti, and that alone may make him powerful enemies, who had better still be his enemies than yours, father."
"I fear them not," replied the old nobleman; "let diligent inquiry be made around and on the road to Pavia for any stranger arrived this night. Now, Ramiro, come with me for awhile, and we will talk farther. Lights, boys, on there in my cabinet. You are in your night gear, signor; but I will not keep you long ere I let you to your slumbers again."
"They will be my first slumbers," answered Ramiro. "I had not closen an eye when I heard talking, and singing, and then clashing of swords--no unusual combinations in our fair land, Signor Rovera."
As he spoke he followed the old count into a small, beautiful room, every panel of which held a picture, of great price then, and invaluable now as specimens of the first revival of art. When they were seated and the doors closed, the elder man fell into a fit of thought, though he had invited the conference, and Ramiro d'Orco spoke first.
"Who is this young Visconti?" he asked; "and how comes the King of France to give him cousinship?"
"Why, he is the son of that Carlo Visconti who stabbed Galeazzo Sforza," answered the count, "and was killed in the church. The boy was carried by some of his relations to his godfather, Lorenzo de Medici, and educated by him."
"Then 'tis Ludovic's doing," said Ramiro; "he has sent this man to make away with him, though that was a bad return for his father's kind act in lifting him to power. By my faith he should have raised and honoured the boy. That good stroke of a dagger was worth three quarters of a dukedom to the good prince. But I suppose, from all I learn, that the youth is now trying adventure as a soldier."
"Soldier he is under the King of France," answered the old man; "but an adventurer he hardly can be called, for he has large estates in Tuscany. When Ludovic seized the regency, he was fain to court Lorenzo de Medici for support, and right willingly he agreed to change the estates of his brother's executioner for the lands which his father Francesco had obtained in gratuity from Florence. No, he is wealthy enough, and if he serves, it is but for honour or ambition."
"But how is he cousin to the King of France?" asked Ramiro; "it is a cousinship of much value as events are passing nowadays."
"Why, do you not recollect?" asked the old man, somewhat testily, "that Valentina Visconti married Louis, brother of Charles the Sixth of France, grandfather of the present Duke of Orleans, who will one day be King of France too, if the marriage of this young king be sterile. Three years have passed without any prospect of another heir, and then the future of this youth, is bright indeed."
"It is," answered Ramiro; and, after a moment's thought, he added, "I suppose you intend to marry him to your granddaughter?"
"Good sooth, they may do as they like, Ramiro," answered the old man. "I have made marriages for my children, and seen none of them happy or successful. Some remorse--at least regret--lies in the thought. I have but this child left for all kindred, and she shall make her marriage for herself. I may give advice, but will use no compulsion. In truth, I one time sought her union with Lorenzo, for he is not only full of promise, rich, noble, allied to royal houses both of France and England, but, with high spirit, there is allied in him a tenderness and love but rarely found. I marked it in him early, when he was page to that magnificent prince his godfather. The other lads, who loved or seemed to love him, were sure to prosper through his advocacy of merits less than his own. In furtherance of my wish, I had Bianca brought up with him in Florence; but, like an unskilful archer, I fear I have overshot my mark. The one is as a brother to the other; and I believe she would as soon marry her brother as Lorenzo. On his part I know not what the feelings are. He seems to love her well, but still with love merely fraternal, if one may judge by eyes and looks. I've seen more fire in one glance at Leonora than in poor Lorenzo's life was given to any other. But this unfortunate fight may breed mischief, I fear. If Ludovic sent the man to kill him, he will not soon be off the track of blood. Thank Heaven! he is soon going on."
"I think there is no fear," replied Ramiro, "unless Buondoni's blade was well anointed. Ludovic is too wise to follow him up too fiercely. We may run down our game eagerly enough upon our own lands, but do not carry the chase into the lands of another, Signor Rovera."
"As soon as Lorenzo can rejoin the King of France, he is safe," rejoined the Count, "and methinks, till then, I can take care of him. I know the look of a poisoner or assassin at a street's distance. Only let us look to his wound; I have known one of the same scratches end a good strong man's life in a few hours."
"So say I," answered Ramiro, "but I will go out and walk upon the terrace. I feel not disposed to sleep. If you should want me, call me in. I know something of poisons and their antidotes; I studied them when I was in Padua; for, in this life, no one knows how often one may be called upon to practise such chirurgy on his own behalf."
Thus saying, he left the Count de Rovera, and while the other, half dressed as he was, hurried up to Lorenzo's chamber, Ramiro, with his usual calm and almost noiseless step, went forth and walked the terrace up and down. For more than an hour he paced it from end to end, with all his thoughts turned inward. "A distant cousin of this King of France," he thought, "and almost german to his apparent heir! Wealthy himself and full of high courage! The lad must rise--ay, high, high! He has it in his look. Such are the men upon whose rising fortunes one should take hold, and be carried up with them. It was surely Leonora's voice I heard talking with him from the windows. If so, fortune has arranged all well; yet one must be careful--no too rapid steps. We fly from that which seeks us--run after that which flies. I will mark them both well, and shut my eyes, and let things take their course, or else raise some small difficulties, soon overleaped, to give the young lover fresh ardour in the chase. Pity he is so young--and yet no pity either. It will afford us time to see how far he reaches."
With such thoughts as these he occupied himself so deeply that his eyes were seldom raised from the ground on which he trod. At length, however, he looked up toward the windows; and there was one in which the lights still burned, while figures might be seen, from time to time, passing across.
"That must be his chamber," said Ramiro to himself. "I fear the blade was poisoned, and that it has had some effect. I must go and see. 'Twere most unlucky such a chance should escape me. Let me see; where is that snake-stone I had? It will extract the venom," and, entering the house, he mounted the stairs rapidly to Lorenzo's chamber.
He found him sick indeed. The whole arm and shoulder were greatly swollen; and while the old count stood beside his bed with a look of anxious fear, a servant held the young man up to ease his troubled respiration. Lorenzo's face seemed that of a dying man--the features pale and sharp, the eye dull and glassy.
"Send for a clerk," said the youth; "there is no time for notaries; but I wish my last testament taken down and witnessed."
"Cheer up, cheer up, my good young friend," said Ramiro. "What! you are very sick; the blade was poisoned, doubtless."
"It must be so," said the young man, faintly; "I feel it in every vein."
"Well, well, fear not," answered Ramiro; "I have that at hand which will soon draw out the poison. Here man," he continued, speaking to one of the attendants, who half filled the room, "run to my chamber. On the stool near the window you will find a leathern bag; bring it to me with all speed. You, sir, young page, speed off to the buttery, and bring some of the strongest of the water of life which the house affords. It killed the King of Navarre, they say, but it will help to give life to you, Lorenzo."
"The bottigliere will not let me have it, sir," replied the boy.
"Here, take my ring," said the old count; "make haste--make haste!"
The boy had hardly left the room, when the servant first despatched returned with the leathern bag for which he had been sent. It was soon opened, and, after some search, Ramiro took forth a small packet, and unfolded rapidly paper after paper, which covered apparently some very precious thing within, speaking quietly as he did so:
"This is one of those famous snake-stones," he said, "which, when a man is bitten by any reptile, be it as poisonous as the Egyptian asp, will draw forth the venom instantly from his veins. Heaven knows, but I know not, whether it is a natural substance provided for the cure of one of nature's greatest evils, or some cunningly invented mithridate compounded by deep science. I bought it at a hundred times its weight in gold from an old and renowned physician at Padua; and it is as certain a cure for the case of a poisoned dagger-wound as for the bite of a snake. Ah! here it is! have bare the place where the sword entered."
"Pity it came not a little sooner," said Lorenzo's servant, taking off some bandages from his master's shoulder; "physic is late for a dying man."
Ramiro d'Orco gave him a look that seemed to pierce him like a dagger, for the man drew back as if he had been struck, and almost suffered his master to fall back upon the bed.
"Hold him up, fool!" said Ramiro, sternly; and, holding the wound, which had been stanched, wide open with one hand till the blood began to flow again, he placed what seemed a small brownish stone, hardly bigger than a pea, in the aperture, and then bound the bandages tightly round the spot.
"That boy comes not," he said; "some of you run and hasten him."
But ere his orders could be obeyed the page returned, with a large silver flagon and a Venice glass on a salver.
"Now, Signor Visconti, drink this," said Ramiro, filling a glass and applying it to his lips.
Lorenzo drank, murmuring,--"It is like fire."
"So is life," answered Ramiro; "but you must drink three times, with a short interval. How feel you now?"
"Sick, sick, and faint," replied Lorenzo. But some lustre had already come back into his eye; and after a short pause, Ramiro refilled the glass, saying,
"Here, drink again."
The young man seemed to swallow more easily than before, and, in a moment or two after he had drunk, he said in a low voice,
"I feel better. That stone, or whatever it is, seems as it were sucking out the burning heat from the wound. I breathe more freely, too."
"All is going well," replied Ramiro. "One more draught, and, though you be not cured, and must remain for days, perchance, in your chamber, the enemy is vanquished. You shall have cheerful faces and sweet voices round you to soothe your confinement; but you must be very still and quiet, lest the poison, settling in the wound itself, though we have drawn it from the heart, should beget gangrene. Bianca, your dear cousin, and my child Leonora, shall attend you. Here, drink again."
Lorenzo felt that with such sweet nurses he would not mind his wound; but the third draught revived him more than all. His voice regained its firmness, his eye its light. The sobbing, hard-drawn respiration gave way to easy, regular breathing; and, after a few minutes, he said,
"I feel almost well, and think I could sleep."
"All goes aright," said Ramiro; "you may sleep now in safety. That marvellous stone has already drawn into itself all the deadly venom that had spread through your whole blood. Nothing is wanting but quiet and support. Some one sit by him while he sleeps; and if perchance he wakes, give him another draught out of this tankard. Let us all go now, and leave him to repose."
"I will sit by him, signor," said the man who had been supporting him; "for there be some who would not leave a drop in the tankard big enough to drown a flea, and I have sworn never to tasteaqua vitæagain, since it nearly burst my head open at Rheims, in France."
Before he had done speaking Lorenzo was sound asleep; and while the servant let his head drop softly on the pillow, the rest silently quitted the room.
A few hours earlier on the day of which we have just been speaking, a gallant band of men-at-arms rode forward on the highway between Milan and Pavia. It consisted of nearly four hundred lances, that is to say, of about eight hundred men. Had it been complete, the number would have amounted to many more, for the usual proportion was at least three inferior soldiers, esquires, or pages to each lance; but the eagerness of the young King of France to achieve what he believed would be an easy conquest had hurried his departure from France ere his musters were one half filled.
A short repose in Milan had sufficed to wipe away all stains of travel from his host; and the band of the Lord of Vitry appeared in all their accoutrements, what Rosalind calls "point device." It is true, the day had been somewhat dry and sultry, and some dust had gathered upon splendid surcoats, and scarfs, and sword-knots; and the horses, so gay and full of spirit in the morning, now looked somewhat fatigued, but by no means jaded.
At their head rode their commander, a man of some thirty to two and thirty years of age, of a fine, manly person and handsome countenance, although the expression might be somewhat quick and hasty, and a deep scar on the brow rather marred the symmetry of his face. By his side, on a horse of much inferior power, but full of fire and activity, rode a man, not exactly in the garb of a servant, but yet plainly habited and nearly unarmed. Sword and dagger most men wore in those days, but he wore neither lance nor shield, cuirass nor back-piece. He carried a little black velvet cap upon his head, with a long feather; and he rode in shoes of untanned leather, with long, sharp points, somewhat like a pod of mustard-seed.
"Are you sure you know the way, Master Tony?" asked De Vitry.
"I know the way right well, noble lord," replied the other; "but you do me too much honour to call me master. In Italy none is master but a man of great renown in the arts."
"Good faith, I know not what you are," answered the leader, "and I never could make out what young Lorenzo kept you always trotting at his heels for, like a hound after his master."
"You do me too much honour again, my lord," replied the other, "in comparing me to a hound."
"What, then, in Fortune's name, are you?" asked De Vitry, laughing.
"A mongrel," replied Antonio, "half French, half Italian; but pray, your lordship, don't adjure me by Fortune; for the blind goddess with the kerchief over her eyes has never been favourable to me all my life."
"Time she should change then," answered De Vitry.
"Oh, sir, she is like a school-boy," answered Antonio; "she never changes but from mischief to mischief; only constant in doing evil; and whichever side of her wheel turns uppermost, my lot is sure to slide down to the bottom. But here your lordship must turn off."
De Vitry was following on the road to which the other pointed, when a voice behind said:
"You are leaving the high road, my lord. If you look forward, you will see this is but a narrow lane."
"By my faith that is true," said the commander of the band; "you are not tricking me, I trust, Master Antonio? Halt there--halt!"
"It might be fine fun to trick a French knight if I were my lord's jester," said Antonio, "but I have not arrived at that dignity yet."
"Where does that road lead to, then, sirrah?" demanded De Vitry, pointing to the one they were just leaving.
"To Pavia, my lord," replied the man; "but you will find this the shortest, and, I judge, the best."
There was a lurking smile upon Antonio's face, which De Vitry did not like; and, after but a moment's hesitation, he turned his horse back into the other path, saying:
"I will take the broad way; I never liked narrow or crooked paths in my life."
"I trust you will then allow me to follow the other, sir," said Antonio; "first, because there is no use in trying to guide people who will not be guided, and, secondly, because I have something important to say to my young lord."
"No, sir--no," answered De Vitry, sharply; "ride here by my side. To-morrow, at farthest, I will take care to know whether you have tried to deceive me: and if you have, beware your ears."
"You will know to-night, my lord," said the man, "and my ears are in no danger, if you are not given, like many another gentlemen, to cuffing other people for your own faults."
"You are somewhat saucy, sir," replied the marquis; "your master spoils you, methinks."
The man saw that his companion was not to be provoked farther, and was silent while they rode onward.
It was now drawing towards evening, but the light had not yet faded; and De Vitry gazed around with a soldier's eye, scanning the military aspect of the country around.
"Is there not a river runs behind that ridge, Master Tony?" he asked at the end of ten minutes, with easily recovered good-humour.
"Yes, sir," replied the man shortly.
"And what castle is that on the left--there, far in the distance?"
"That is the castle of Sant' Angelo," answered Antonio.
"Why, here is the river right before us," said De Vitry, "but where is the bridge?"
"Heaven knows," replied the man, with the same quiet smile he had borne before; "part of it, you may see, is standing on the other side, and there are a few stones on this, if they can be of any service to your lordship. The rest took to travelling down toward the Po some month or two ago, and how far they have marched I cannot tell."
"Doubtless we can ford it," said De Vitry, in an indifferent tone.
"First send your enemy, my lord," replied Antonio, "then your friend, and then try it yourself--if you like."
"By my life, I have a mind to send you first, head foremost," replied the commander, sharply, but the next moment he burst into a good-humoured laugh, saying, "Well, what is to be done? The stream seems deep and strong. We did you wrong, Antonio. Now lead us right, at all events."
"You did yourself wrong, and your own eyesight, my lord," answered the man, "for, if you had looked at the tracks on the road, you would have seen that all the ox-carts for the last month have turned off where I would have led you. You have only now to go back, again."
"A hard punishment for a light fault," replied De Vitry. "Why told you me not this before, my good sir."
"Because, my lord, I have always thought St. Anthony, my patron, was wrong in preaching to fishes which have no ears. But we had better speed, sir, for it is touching upon evening, and night will have fallen before we reach Sant' Angelo. There you will find good quarters in the Borgo for your men; and, doubtless, the noble signor in the castle will come down at the first sound of your trumpets, and ask you and your prime officers to feast with him above. He is a noble lord, and loves the powers that be. Well that the devil has not come upon earth in his day, for he would have entertained him royally, and might have injured his means in honour of his guest."
De Vitry burst into another gay laugh, and, turning his horse's head, gave orders for his band to retrace their steps, upon which, of course, the young men commented as they would, while the old soldiers obeyed without question, even in their thoughts.
Night had long fallen when they reached Sant' Angelo a place then of much more importance than it is now, or has been for two centuries. But Antonio had been mistaken in supposing that De Vitry and his principal officers would be invited to lodge within the castle. The lord thereof was absent, knowing that the route of the King of France must be close to his residence. He was well aware that the attachment professed toward the young monarch by persons more powerful than himself was all hollow and deceptive, and that inferior men, in conflicts of great interests, always suffer, whose party soever they espouse. But he knew, too that unexplained neutrality suffers more than all, and he resolved to absent himself from his lands on the first news of the arrival of the King of France in Italy, that he might seem to favour neither him nor his opponents, and yet not proclaim a neutrality which would make enemies of both.
The castle, indeed, would at once have opened its gates, had it been summoned; but De Vitry, knowing the king's anxiety to keep on good terms with all the Italian nobles of Lombardy, contented himself with lodgings in the humble inn of the place, and hunger made his food seem as good as any which the castle could have afforded. The supper passed gaily over; the men were scattered in quarters through the little borough; wine was with difficulty procured by any but the officers, and sober perforce, the soldiery sought rest early. De Vitry and one or two others sat up late, sometimes talking, sometimes falling into fits of thought.
Antonio, in the meantime, had not even thought of rest. He had carefully attended to his horse, had ordered him to be fed, and seen him eat his food, and he stood before the door of the inn, gazing up at the moon, as if enjoying the calm sweetness of the soft Italian nights, but in reality meditating a farther ride as soon as all the rest were asleep. It was in the shadiest corner of this doorway that the man had placed himself, and yet he could see the full nearly-rounded orb without coming under her beams. As so often happens, two processes seemed going on in his mind at once; one suggested by objects present, and finding utterance in an occasional murmured sentence or two, the other originating in things past, and proceeding silently.
"Ay, Madam Moon," he said; "you are a curious creature, with your changes, and your risings, and your settings, and your man with his dog and lantern. I wonder what you really are. You look like a great big ducat nailed upon the sky, or a seal of yellow wax pendent from the charter of the heavens. I could almost fancy, though, that I can see behind you on this clear night. Perhaps you are but the big boss of a sconce, put up there to reflect the light of the sun. You will soon be up there, just above the watch-tower of the castle, like a ball upon a gate-post. Hark! there are people riding late. By my faith! if they be travellers coming hither, they will find scanty lodging and little to eat. These gormandizing Frenchmen have gobbled up everything in the village, I warrant, and occupied every bed. On my faith, they will find themselves too confident some day: not a sentry set except at the stables; no one on guard; the two or three officers in the dining-hall. They think they have got Italy at their feet; they may discover that they are mistaken before they leave it. These horsemen are coming hither. Who can they be?"
While these thoughts had been occupying one part of the man--I know not how better to express it--and had more or less clothed themselves in words, another train, more nearly allied to feeling, had been proceeding silently in the deeper recesses of his bosom. There was something which made him half sorry that he had been prevented from proceeding further before nightfall, half angry with him who had been, partly at least, the cause of the delay. "I do not believe," he thought, "that the big bravo can reach the villa before morning. He had not set out when we came away, and yet I should like to see the young lord to-night. I have a great mind to get upon my horse's skin at once and go on. But then, a thousand to one, De Vitry would send after and stop me; and if I were to meet Buondoni and his people, I should get my throat cut, and all my news would escape through the gash. If I could persuade this dashing French captain to lend me half a dozen men now, I might do something; but their horses are all tired with carrying the cart-load of iron each has got upon his shoulders. Hark! these travellers are coming nearer. Perhaps they may bring some news from the Villa Rovera. They are coming from that side."
He drew farther back into the shadow of the gateway. It may seem strange that he did so; for even in distracted England, in those days as well as afterward, the first impulse of the lodger in an inn was to meet the coming guest and obtain the general tidings which he brought, and which were hardly to be obtained from any other source. But in Italy men had learned such caution that every stranger was considered an enemy till he was ascertained to be a friend. The evils of high civilization were upon the land, without any of its benefits; nay, more, this had endured so long that suspicion might almost be looked upon as the normal condition of the Italian mind.
The republics of Italy have been highly extolled by eloquent men, but their results were all evil except in one respect. They served to preserve a memory of the arts--to rescue, in fact, something which might decorate life from the wreck of perished years. In thus speaking, I include commerce with the arts. But as to social advancement, they did nothing except through the instrumentality of those arts. They endeavoured to revive ancient forms unsuited to the epoch; they succeeded in so doing only for the briefest possible period, and the effort ended everywhere, first in anarchy, and then in despotism--each equally destructive to individual happiness, to general security, and to public morals. They afforded a spectacle, at once humiliating and terrible, of the impotence of the human mind to stem the strong, calm current of pre-ordained events. Their brief existence, their lamentable failure, the brightness of their short course, and the evils consequent upon the attempts to recall rotten institutions from millennial graves, were but as the last flash of the expiring candle of old Rome, ending in darkness and a bad smell. For more than two centuries, at the time I speak of, life and property in Italy had enjoyed no security except in the continual watchfulness of the possessor. The minds of men were armed as well as their bodies, and thus had been engendered that suspicion and that constant watchfulness which rendered life a mere campaign, because the world was one battlefield.
Oh! happy state under the old Saxon king of England, when from one end to the other of the bright island a young girl might carry a purse of gold unmolested!
Antonio drew back as the travellers approached to hear something of who and what they were before he ventured to deal with them personally. They were within a few yards of him in a minute, drawing in the rein when they came opposite the archway leading to the stable-yard. There the first challenge of a sentinel was heard, and the answer given, "Amici!" showed that they were Italians.
The word was uttered quickly and in a tone of surprise, which showed they were unaware the borgo had been occupied by the French troops; but, after a few whispered sentences, one of the four who had newly arrived asked the sentinel, in marvellous bad French, to call the landlord or one of the horse-boys. They wanted food for themselves and horses, they said, and hoped to find some place to rest in for the night.
The sentinel grumbled forth something to the effect that they were much mistaken, but, raising his stentorian voice, he called the people of the house into the courtyard; and Antonio gazed forth and scrutinised the appearance of the new-comers for a minute or two, while they made their application for entertainment, and heard all the objections and difficulties laid before them by the landlord, who was already overcrowded, but unwilling to lose certainlirewhich they might expend in his house.
"I can but feed your horses in the yard, and give you some straw and covering for yourselves, Signor Sacchi," replied the landlord; "and then you must lie on the floor of the hall."
The leading horseman turned to consult with his three companions, saying, "He told us to wait him here if he came not in an hour."
"Nay, I understood, if he came not in an hour," replied another, "we were to conclude he had obtained entertainment in the Villa--, which the count's letter was sure to secure for him; but I did not hear him say we were to come back here, as I told you long ago, Sacchi."
But before they had proceeded even thus far, Antonio had re-entered the house, and was conversing eagerly with the young Marquis de Vitry.
"If you will but let me have half a dozen common troopers, my lord," said he--"I know not how many this man may have with him--but I will risk that."
"But who is he? who is he?" asked De Vitry, "and what are your causes of suspicion?"
"Why I told you, my lord," replied Antonio, "he is that tall big-limbed Ferrara man who is so great a favourite with the Count Regent--Buondoni is his name. Then, as to the causes of suspicion, I came upon Ludovic and him talking in the gallery of the castle last night, and I heard the count say, 'Put him out of the way any how; he is a viper in my path, and must be removed. Surely, Buondoni, you can pick a quarrel with the young hound, and rid me of him. He is not a very fearful enemy, I think, to a master of fence like you!' Thereupon the other laughed, saying, 'Well, my lord, I will set out to-night or to-morrow, and you shall hear of something being done before Thursday, unless Signor Rovera takes good care of his young kinsman.' 'Let him beware how he crosses me,' muttered the Moor. And now, Signor de Vitry, I am anxious to warn my young lord of what is plotting against him."
"After all, it may be against another, a different person from him you suppose," replied De Vitry. "This Buondoni, if it be the same man, was insolent to young De Terrail, and Bayard struck him. We also were going to halt at the Villa Rovera, and Ludovic knew it."
"But, my lord," exclaimed Antonio, "do you not perceive--"
"I see, I see," replied De Vitry, interrupting him: "I know what you would say. Ludovic has no cause to hate Bayard or to remove him; it was but Buondoni's private quarrel. There is some truth in that. Are you sure these men just arrived are his servants?"
"As sure as the sun moves round the earth," replied Antonio.
"Nay, that I know nought of," answered De Vitry; "but here they come, I suppose. Find out De Terrail, Antonio. Tell him to take twenty men of his troop and go forward with you. You can tell him your errand as you go. I will deal awhile with these gentlemen, and see what I can make out of them."
Antonio retired quietly keeping to the shady side of the large ill-lighted hall, while the three freshly-arrived travellers moved slowly forward, with a respectful air, toward the table near which De Vitry sat.
"Give you good evening, gentlemen," said the marquis, turning sharply round as soon as he heard their footsteps near. "Whence come you?"
"From Pavia, my lord," said Sacchi, a large-boned, black-bearded man.
"And what news bring you?" inquired the French commander. "None, my lord," replied the man; "all was marvellous peaceful."
"Ay, peace is a marvel in this wicked world," answered De Vitry. "Called you at the Villa Rovera as you passed?"
"No, sir--that is, we stopped a moment, but did not call," replied Sacchi.
"And what did you stop for?" asked the Frenchman.
"Only just to--to be sure of our way," replied Sacchi.
"And you came from Pavia, then?" said De Vitry. "You must have set out at a late hour, especially for men who did not rightly know their way. But methinks I saw you in Milan this morning. Will you have the bounty to wake that gentleman at the end of the table, who has gone to sleep over his wine?"
He spoke in the calmest and most good-humoured tone, without moving in his seat, his feet stretched out before him, and his head thrown back; and the man to whom he spoke approached the French officer who was seated sleeping at the table, and took him by the shoulder.
"Shake him," said De Vitry; "shake him hard; he sleeps soundly when he does sleep."
Sacchi did as he was bid, and the officer started up, exclaiming:
"What is it? Aux armes!"
"No need of arms, Montcour," answered his commander; "only do me the favour of taking that gentleman by the collar, and placing him in arrest."
He spoke at first slowly, but increased in rapidity of utterance as he saw his officer's sleepy senses begin to awaken. But Montcour was hardly enough roused to execute his orders, and though he stretched out his hand somewhat quickly towards Sacchi's neck, the Italian had time to jump back and make toward the door.
De Vitry was on his feet in a moment, however, and barred the way, sword in hand. The other servants of Buondoni rushed to the only other way out; but there were officers of De Vitry's band not quite so sleepy as Montcour, and, without waiting for orders, they soon made three out of the four prisoners. The other leaped from the window and escaped.
"My lord, my lord, this is too bad!" exclaimed Sacchi; "you came here as friends and allies of the noble regent, and you are hardly ten days in the country before you begin to abuse his subjects and servants."
For a moment or two De Vitry kept silence, and gazed at his prisoner with a look of contempt. The man did not like either the look or the silence. Each was significant, but difficult to answer; and in a moment after, De Vitry having given him over to one of the subaltern officers, nodded his head, quietly saying:
"We understand you, sirrah, better than you think. If I were to consider you really as a servant of Prince Ludovic, I might remark that the regent invited us here as friends and allies, and we had been scarcely ten days in the land ere he sent you and others to murder one of our officers, and a kinsman of our king; but I do not choose to consider you as his servant, nor to believe that he is responsible for your acts. The king must judge of that as he finds reason, and either hang you or your master, as in his equity he judges right. As to other matters, you know your first word was a lie, that you do not come from Pavia at all, and that the beginning and end of your journey was the Villa Rovera. What you have done there I do not know, but I know the object of your master."
"But, sir, I have nought to do with my master's business," replied Sacchi. "I know nought of his objects; I only know that I obey my orders."
"Hark ye! we are wasting words," said De Vitry. "Doubtless you will be glad to know what I intend to do with you. I shall keep you here till an hour before daybreak, and then take you on to the villa. If I find that one hair of Lorenzo Visconti's head has suffered, I will first hang your master, the worshipful Signor Buondoni, on the nearest tree, and then hang you three round him for the sake of symmetry. I swear it on the cross;" and he devoutly kissed the hilt of his sword.
Sacchi's face turned deadly pale, and he murmured:
"It will be too late--to-morrow--before to-morrow it will be done."
"What is that you mutter?" said De Vitry; "what do you mean will be done?"
"Why, my lord," replied the man, "my master--my master may have some grudge against the young lord Lorenzo. He is a man of quick action, and does not tarry long in his work. I know nought about it, so help me Heaven! but it is hard to put an innocent man's life in jeopardy for what may happen in a night. Better set off at once and stop the mischief rather than avenge it."
"So, so!" said De Vitry; "then the story is all too true. Bayard! Bayard!"
"He has just passed into the court, seigneur," replied one of the young officers who was standing near the window; "he and some others are mounting their horses now. Shall I call him?"
"No, let him go," answered the leader; "he is always prompt and always wise. We can trust it all to him. As for these fellows, take them and put them in an upper room where they cannot jump out. Set a guard at the door. You, signors, best know whether your consciences are quite clear; but if they be not, I advise you to make your peace with Heaven as best you may during the night, for I strongly suspect, from what you yourselves admit, that I shall have to raise you a little above earthly things about dawn to-morrow. There, take them away. I do not want to hear any more. Our good King Louis, eleventh of the name, had a way of decorating trees after such a sort. I have seen as many as a dozen all pendent at once when I was a young boy, and I do not know why it should go against my stomach to do this same with a pack of murderous wolves, who seem made by Heaven for the purpose of giving a warning to their countrymen."