That taunt of his mother's stirred Gian Maria. He rose from his ducal chair and descended from the dais on which it stood, possessed by a tempestuous mood that would not brook him to sit still.
“The braying of an ass?” he muttered, facing Caterina. Then he laughed unpleasantly. “The jaw-bone of an ass did sore execution on one occasion, Madonna, and it may again. A little patience, and you shall see.” Next, and with a brisker air, he addressed the four silent courtiers, “You heard him, sirs,” he exclaimed, “How do you say that I shall deal with such a traitor?” He waited some seconds for an answer, and it seemed to anger him that none came. “Have you, then, no counsel for me?” he demanded harshly.
“I had not thought,” said Lodi hardily, “that this was a case in which your Highness needed counsel. You were drawn to conclude that the Lord of Aquila was a traitor, but from what we have all heard, your Highness should now see that he is not.”
“Should I so?” the Duke returned, standing still and fixing upon Fabrizio an eye that was dull as a snake's. “Messer da Lodi, your loyalty is a thing that has given signs of wavering of late. Now, if by the grace of God and His blessed saints I have ruled as a merciful prince who errs too much upon the side of clemency, I would enjoin you not to try that clemency too far. I am but a man, after all.”
He turned from the fearless front presented by the old statesman, to face the troubled glances of the others.
“Your silence, sirs, tells me that in this matter your judgement runs parallel with mine. And you are wise, for in such a case there can be but one course. My cousin has uttered words to-day which no man has ever said to a prince and lived. Nor shall we make exception to that rule. My Lord of Aquila's head must pay the price of his temerity.”
“My son,” cried Caterina, in a voice of horror. Gian Maria faced her in a passion, his countenance grown mottled.
“I have said it,” he growled. “I will not sleep until he dies.”
“Yet never may you wake again,” she answered. And with that preamble she launched upon his head the bitterest criticism he had ever heard. By stinging epithets and contemptuous words, she sought to make him see the folly of what he meditated. Was he indeed tired of ruling Babbiano? If that were so, she told him, he had but to wait for Caesar Borgia's coming. He need not precipitate matters by a deed that must lead to a revolt, a rising of the people to avenge their idol.
“You have given me but added reasons,” he answered her stoutly. “There is no room in my Duchy for a man whose death, if it pleased me to encompass it, would be avenged upon me by my own people.”
“Then send him from your dominions,” she urged. “Banish him, and all may be well. But if you slay him, I should not count your life worth a day's purchase.”
This advice was sound, and in the end they prevailed upon him to adopt it. But it was not done save at the cost of endless prayers on the part of those courtiers, and the persuasions of Caterina's biting scorn and prophecies of the fate that surely awaited him did he touch the life of one so wellbeloved. At last, against his will, he sullenly consented that the banishment of his cousin should content him. But it was with infinite bitterness and regret that he passed his word, for his jealousy was of a quality that nothing short of Francesco's death could have appeased. Certain it is that nothing but the fear of the consequences, which his mother had instilled into his heart, could have swayed him to be satisfied that the Count of Aquila should be banished.
He sent for Martino and bade him return the Count his sword, and he entrusted the message of exile to Fabrizio da Lodi, charging him to apprise Francesco that he was allowed twenty-four hours' grace in which to take himself beyond the dominions of Gian Maria Sforza.
That done—and with an exceedingly ill grace—the Duke turned on his heel, and with a sullen brow he left the ducal chamber, and passed, unattended, to his own apartments.
Rejoicing, Fabrizio da Lodi went his errand, which he discharged with certain additions that might have cost him his head had knowledge of them come to Gian Maria. In fact, he seized the opportunity to again press upon Francesco the throne of Babbiano.
“The hour is very ripe,” he urged the Count, “and the people love you as surely prince was never loved. It is in their interests that I plead. You are their only hope. Will you not come to them?”
If for a moment Francesco hesitated, it was rather in consideration of the manner in which the crown was offered than in consequence of any allurement that the offer may have had for him. Once—that night at Sant' Angelo—he had known temptation, and for a moment had listened to the seductions in the voice that invited him to power. But not so now. A thought he gave to the people who had such faith in him, and showered upon him such admiring love, and whom, as a matter of reciprocity, he wished well, and would have served in any capacity but this. He shook his head, and with a smile of regret declined the offer.
“Have patience, old friend,” he added. “I am not of the stuff that goes to make good princes, although you think it. It is a bondage into which I would not sell myself. A man's life for me, Fabrizio—a free life that is not directed by councillors and at the mercy of the rabble.”
Fabrizio's face grew sad. He sighed profoundly, yet since it might not be well for him that he should remain over-long in talk with one who, in the Duke's eyes, was attainted with treason, he had not leisure to insist with persuasions, which, after all, he clearly saw must in the end prove barren.
“What was the salvation of the people of Babbiano,” he murmured, “was also your Excellency's, since did you adopt the course I urge there would be no need to go in banishment.”
“Why, this exile suits me excellently well,” returned Francesco. “Idle have I been over-long, and the wish to roam is in my veins again. I'll see the world once more, and when I weary of my vagrancy I can withdraw to my lands of Aquila, and in that corner of Tuscany, too mean to draw a conqueror's eye, none will molest me, and I shall rest. Babbiano, my friend, shall know me no more after to-night. When I am gone, and the people realise that they may not have what they would, they may rest content perhaps with what they may.” And he waved a hand in the direction of the doors leading to the ducal chamber. With that he took his leave of his old friend, and, carrying in his hand the sword and dagger which Captain Armstadt had returned to him, he repaired briskly to the northern wing of the Palace, in which he had his lodging.
In the ante-room he dismissed those of his servants who had been taken from the ranks of the Duke's people, and bade his own Tuscan followers, Zaccaria and Lanciotto, see to the packing of his effects, and make all ready to set out within the hour.
He was no coward, but he had no wish to die just yet if it might be honourably avoided. Life had some sweets to offer Francesco del Falco, and this spurred him to hasten, for he well knew his cousin's unscrupulous ways. He was aware that Gian Maria had been forced by weight of argument to let him go, and he shrewdly feared that did he linger, his cousin might veer round again, and without pausing to seek advice a second time, have him disposed of out of hand and reckless of consequences.
Whilst Lanciotto was left busy in the ante-room the Count passed into his bedchamber attended by Zaccaria, to make in his raiment such changes as were expedient. But scarce had he begun when he was interrupted by the arrival of Fanfulla degli Arcipreti, whom Lanciotto ushered in. Francesco's face lighted at sight of his friend, and he held out his hand.
“What is it that has happened?” cried the young gallant, adding that which showed his question to be unnecessary, for from Fabrizio da Lodi he had had the whole story of what was befallen. He sat himself upon the bed, and utterly disregarding the presence of Zaccaria—whom he knew to be faithful—he attempted to persuade the Count where Fabrizio had failed. But Paolo cut him short ere he had gone very far.
“Have done with that,” he said, and for all that he said it with a laugh, determination sounded sturdy in his accents. “I am a knight-errant, not a prince, and I'll not be converted from one to the other. It were making a helot of a free man, and you do not love me, Fanfulla, if you drive this argument further. Do you think me sad, cast down, at the prospect of this banishment? Why, boy, the blood runs swifter through my veins since I heard the sentence. It frees me from Babbiano in an hour when perhaps my duty—the reciprocation of the people's love—might otherwise have held me here, and it gives me liberty to go forth, my good Fanfulla, in quest of such adventure as I choose to follow.” He threw out his arms, and displayed his splendid teeth in a hearty laugh.
Fanfulla eyed him, infected by the boisterous gladness of his mood.
“Why, true indeed, my lord,” he acknowledged, “you are too fine a bird to sing in a cage. But to go knight-erranting——” He paused, and spread his hands in protest. “There are no longer dragons holding princesses captive.”
“Alas no. But the Venetians are on the eve of war, and they will find work for these hands of mine. I want not for friends among them.”
Fanfulla sighed.
“And so we lose you. The stoutest arm in Babbiano leaves us in the hour of need, driven out by that loutish Duke. By my soul, Ser Francesco, I would I might go with you. Here is nothing to be done.”
Francesco paused in the act of drawing on a boot, and raised his eyes to stare a moment at his friend.
“But if you wish it, Fanfulla, I shall rejoice to have your company.”
And now the idea of it entered Fanfulla's mind in earnest, for his expression had been more or less an idle one. But since Francesco invited him, why not indeed?
And thus it came to pass that at the third hour of that warm May night a party of four men on horseback and two sumpter mules passed out of Babbiano and took the road that leads to Vinamare, and thence into the territory of Urbino. These riders were the Count of Aquila and Fanfulla degli Arcipreti, followed by Lanciotto leading a mule that bore the arms of those knights-errant, and Zaccaria leading another with their general baggage.
All night they rode beneath the stars, and on until some three hours after sunrise, when they made halt in a hollow of the hills not far from Fabriano. They tethered their horses in a grove of peaceful laurel and sheltering mulberry, at the foot of a slope that was set with olive trees, grey, gnarled and bent as aged cripples, and beside the river Esino at a spot where it was so narrow that an agile man might leap its width. Here, then, they spread their cloaks, and Zaccaria unpacked his victuals, and set before them a simple meal of bread and wine and roasted fowl, which to their hunger made more appeal than a banquet at another season. And when they had eaten they laid them down beside the stream, and there beguiled in pleasant talk the time until they fell asleep. They rested them through the heat of the day, and waking some three hours after noon, the Count rose up and went some dozen paces down the stream to a spot where it fell into a tiny lake—a pool deep and blue as the cloudless heavens which it mirrored. Here he stripped off his garments and plunged headlong in, to emerge again, some moments later, refreshed and reinvigorated in body and in soul.
As Fanfulla awoke he beheld an apparition coming towards him, a figure lithe and stalwart as a sylvian god, the water shining on the ivory whiteness of his skin and glistening in his sable hair as the sunlight caught it.
“Tell me now, Fanfulla, lives there a man of so depraved a mind that he would prefer a ducal crown to this?”
And the courtier, seeing Francesco's radiant mien, understood perhaps, at last, how sordid was the ambition that could lure a man from such a god-like freedom, and from the holy all-consuming joys it brought him. His thoughts being started upon that course, it was of this they talked what time the Count resumed his garments—his hose of red, his knee-high boots of untanned leather, and his quilted brigandine of plain brown cloth, reputed dagger-proof. He rose at last to buckle on his belt of hammered steel, from which there hung, behind his loins, a stout, lengthy dagger, the only weapon that he carried.
At his command the horses were saddled and the sumpters laden once more. Lanciotto held his stirrup, and Zaccaria did like service for Fanfulla, and presently they were cantering out of that fragrant grove on to the elastic sward of broad, green pasture-lands. They crossed the stream at a spot where the widened sheet of water scarce went higher than their horses' hocks; then veering to the east they rode away from the hills for a half-league or so until they gained a road. Here they turned northward again, and pushed on towards Cagli.
As the bells were ringing the Ave Maria the cavalcade drew up before the Palazzo Valdicampo, where two nights ago Gian Maria had been entertained. Its gates were now as readily thrown wide to welcome the illustrious and glorious Count of Aquila, who was esteemed by Messer Valdicampo no less than his more puissant cousin. Chambers were set at his disposal, and at Fanfulla's; servants were bidden to wait upon them; fresh raiment was laid out for them, and a noble supper was prepared to do honour to Francesco. Nor did the generous Valdicampo's manner cool when he learned that Francesco was in disgrace at the Court of Babbiano and banished from the dominions of Duke Gian Maria. He expressed sympathetic regret at so untoward a circumstance and discreetly refrained from passing any opinion thereupon.
Yet later, as they supped, and when perhaps the choice wines had somewhat relaxed his discretion, he permitted himself to speak of Gian Maria's ways in terms that were very far from laudatory.
“Here, in my house,” he informed them, “he committed an outrage upon a poor unfortunate, for which an account may yet be asked of me—since it was under my roof that the thing befell, for all that I knew nothing of it.”
Upon being pressed by Paolo to tell them more, he parted with the information that the unfortunate in question was Urbino's jester Peppe. At that, Paolo's glance became more intent. The memory of his meeting with the fool and his mistress in the woods, a month ago, flashed now across his mind, and it came to him that he could rightly guess the source whence his cousin had drawn the information that had led to his own arrest and banishment.
“Of what nature was the outrage?” he inquired.
“From what Peppe himself has told me it would seem that the fool was possessed of some knowledge which Gian Maria sought, but on which Peppe was bound by oath to silence. Gian Maria caused him to be secretly taken and carried off from Urbino. His sbirri brought the fellow here, and to make him speak the Duke improvised in his bedchamber a tratta di corde, which had the desired result.”
The Count's face grew dark with anger. “The coward!” he muttered. “The dastardly craven!”
“But bethink you, sir Count,” exclaimed Valdicampo, “that this poor Peppe is a frail and deformed creature, lacking the strength of an ordinary man, and do not judge him over-harshly.”
“It was not of him I spoke,” replied Francesco, “but of my cousin, that cowardly tyrant, Gian Maria Sforza. Tell me, Messer Valdicampo—what has become of Ser Peppe?”
“He is still here. I have had him tended, and his condition is already much improved. It will not be long ere he is recovered, but for a few days yet his arms will remain almost useless. They were all but torn from his body.”
When the meal was done Francesco begged his host to conduct him to Peppe's chamber. This Valdicampo did, and leaving Fanfulla in the company of the ladies of his house, he escorted the Count to the room where the poor, ill-used hunchback was abed tended by one of the women of Valdicampo's household.
“Here is a visitor to see you, Ser Peppe,” the old gentleman announced, setting down his candle on a table by the bed. The jester turned his great head towards the newcomer's, and sought with melancoly eyes the face of his visitor. At sight of him a look of terror spread itself upon his countenance.
“My lord,” he cried, struggling into a sitting posture, “my noble, gracious lord, have mercy on me. I could tear out this craven tongue of mine. But did you know what agonies I suffered, and to what a torture they submitted me to render me unfaithful, it may be that you, yourself, would pity me.”
“Why, that I do,” answered Francesco gently. “Indeed, could I have seen the consequences that oath would have for you, I had not bound you by it.”
The fear in Peppe's face gave place to unbelief.
“And you forgive me, lord?” he cried. “I dreaded when you entered that you were come to punish me for what wrong I may have done you in speaking. But if you forgive me, it may be that Heaven will forgive me also, and that I may not be damned. And that were a thousand pities, for what, my lord, should I do in hell?”
“Deride the agonies of Gian Maria,” answered Francesco, with a laugh.
“It were almost worth burning for,” mused Peppe, putting forth a hand, whose lacerated, swollen wrist bore evidence to the torture he had suffered. At sight of it the Count made an exclamation of angry horror, and hastened to inquire into the poor fool's condition.
“It is not so bad now,” Peppe answered him, “and it is only in consequence of Messer Valdicampo's insistence that I have kept my bed. I can scarce use my arms, it is true, but they are improving. To-morrow I shall be up, and I hope to set out for Urbino, where my dear mistress must be distressed with fears for my absence, for she is a very kind and tenderhearted lady.”
This resolve of Peppe's prompted the Count to offer to conduct him to Urbino on the morrow, since he, himself, would be journeying that way—an offer which the fool accepted without hesitation and with lively gratitude.
In the morning Francesco set out once more, accompanied by his servants, Fanfulla, and the fool. The latter was now so far restored as to be able to sit a mule, but lest the riding should over-tire him they proceeded at little more than an ambling pace along the lovely valleys of the Metauro. Thus it befell that when night descended it found them still journeying, and some two leagues distant from Urbino. Another league they travelled in the moonlight, and the fool was beguiling the time for them with a droll story culled from the bright pages of Messer Boccaccio, when of a sudden his sharp ears caught a sound that struck him dumb in the middle of a sentence.
“Are you faint?” asked Francesco, turning quickly towards him, and mindful of the fellow's sore condition.
“No, no,” answered the fool, with a readiness that dispelled the Count's alarm on that score. “I thought I heard a sound of marching in the distance.”
“The wind in the trees, Peppino,” explained Fanfulla.
“I do not think——” He stopped short and listened and now they all heard it, for it came wafted to them on a gust of the fitful breeze that smote their faces.
“You are right,” said Francesco. “It is the tramp of men. But what of that, Peppe? Men will march in Italy. Let us hear the end of your story.”
“But who should march in Urbino, and by night?” the fool persisted.
“Do I know or do I care?” quoth the Count. “Your story, man.”
For all that he was far from satisfied, the fool resumed his narrative. But he no longer told it with his former irresistible humour. His mind was occupied with that sound of marching, which came steadily nearer. At length he could endure it no longer, and the apathy of his companions fired him openly to rebel.
“My lord,” he cried, turning to the Count, and again leaving his story interrupted, “they are all but upon us.”
“True!” agreed Francesco indifferently. “The next turn yonder should bring us into them.”
“Then I beg you, Lord Count, to step aside. Let us pause here, under the trees, until they have passed. I am full of fears. Perhaps I am a coward, but I mislike these roving night-hands. It may be a company of masnadieri.”
“What then?” returned the Count, without slackening speed. “What cause have we to fear a party of robbers?”
But Fanfulla and the servants joined their advice to Peppe's, and prevailed at last upon Francesco to take cover until this company should have passed. He consented, to pacify them, and wheeling to the right they entered the border of the forest, drawing rein well in the shadow, whence they could survey the road and see who passed across the patch of moonlight that illumined it. And presently the company came along and swung into that revealing flood of light. To the astonishment of the watchers they beheld no marauding party such as they had been led to expect, but a very orderly company of some twenty men, soberly arrayed in leather hacketons and salades of bright steel, marching sword on thigh and pike on shoulder. At the head of this company rode a powerfully-built man on a great sorrel horse, at sight of whom the fool swore softly in astonishment. In the middle of the party came four litters borne by mules, and at the side of one of them rode a slender, graceful figure that provoked from Peppe a second oath. But the profoundest objurgation of all was wrung from him at sight of a portly bulk in the black habit of the Dominicans ambling in the rear, who just then was in angry altercation with a fellow that was urging his mule along with the butt of his partisan.
“May you be roasted on a gridiron like Saint Lawrence,” gasped the irate priest. “Would you break my neck, brute beast that you are? Do you but wait until we reach Roccaleone, and by St. Dominic, I'll get your ruffianly commander to hang you for this ill-seasoned jest.”
But his tormentor laughed for answer, and smote the mule again, a blow this time that almost caused it to rear up. The friar cried out in angry alarm, and then, still storming and threatening his persecutor, he passed on. After him came six heavily-laden carts, each drawn by a pair of bullocks, and the rear of the procession was brought up by a flock of a dozen bleating sheep, herded by a blasphemant man-at-arms. They passed the astonished watchers, who remained concealed until that odd company had melted away into the night.
“I could swear,” said Fanfulla, “that that friar and I have met before.”
“Nor would you do a perjury,” answered him the fool. “For it is that fat hog Fra Domenico—he that went with you to the Convent of Acquasparta to fetch unguents for his Excellency.”
“What does he in that company, and who are they?” asked the Count, turning to the fool as they rode out of their ambush.
“Ask me where the devil keeps his lures,” quoth the fool, “and I'll make some shift to answer you. But as for what does Fra Domenico in that galley, it is more than I can hazard a guess on. He is not the only one known to me,” Peppino added, “There was Ercole Fortemani, a great, dirty, blustering ruffian whom I never saw in aught but rags, riding at their heads in garments of most unwonted wholeness; and there was Romeo Gonzaga, whom I never knew to stir by night save to an assignation. Strange things must be happening in Urbino.”
“And the litters?” inquired Francesco, “Can you hazard no guess as to their meaning?”
“None,” said he, “saving that they may account for the presence of Messer Gonzaga. For litters argue women.”
“It seems, fool, that not even your wisdom shall avail us. But you heard the friar say they were bound for Roccaleone?”
“Yes, I heard that. And by means of it we shall probably learn the rest at the end of our journey.”
And being a man of extremely inquisitive mind, the fool set his inquiries on foot the moment they entered the gates of Urbino in the morning—for they had reached the city over-late to gain admittance that same night, and were forced to seek shelter in one of the houses by the river. It was of the Captain of the Gate that he sought information.
“Can you tell me, Ser Capitan,” he inquired, “what company was that that travelled yesternight to Roccaleone?”
The captain looked at him a moment.
“There was none that I know of,” said he, “Certainly none from Urbino.”
“You keep a marvellous watch,” said the fool drily. “I tell you that a company of men-at-arms some twenty strong went last night from Urbino to Roccaleone.”
“To Roccaleone?” echoed the captain, with a musing air, more attentively than before, as if the repetition of that name had suggested something to his mind. “Why, it is the castle of Monna Valentina.”
“True, sapient sir. But what of the company, and why was it travelling so, by night?”
“How know you it proceeded from Urbino?” quoth the captain earnestly.
“Because at its head I recognised the roaring warrior Ercole Fortemani, in the middle rode Romeo Gonzaga, in the rear came Fra Domenico, Madonna's confessor—men of Urbino all.”
The officer's face grew purple at the news.
“Were there any women in the party?” he cried.
“I saw none,” replied the fool, in whom this sudden eagerness of the captain's awakened caution and reflection.
“But there were four litters,” put in Francesco, whose nature was less suspicious and alert than the wise fool's.
Too late Peppe scowled caution at him. The captain swore a great oath.
“It is she,” he cried, with assurance. “And this company was travelling to Roccaleone, you say. How know you that?”
“We heard it from the friar,” answered Francesco readily.
“Then, by the Virgin! we have them. Olá!” He turned from them, and ran shouting into the gatehouse, to re-emerge a moment later with half-dozen soldiers at his heels.
“To the Palace,” he commanded, and as his men surrounded Francesco's party, “Come, sir,” he said to the Count. “You must go with us, and tell your story to the Duke.”
“There is no need for all this force,” answered Francesco coldly. “In any case, I could not pass through Urbino without seeing Duke Guidobaldo. I am the Count of Aquila.”
At once the captain's bearing grew respectful. He made his apologies for the violent measures of his zeal, and bade his men fall behind. Ordering them to follow him, he mounted a horse that was brought him, and rode briskly through the borgo at the Count's side. And as he rode he told them what the jester's quick intuition had already whispered to him. The lady Valentina was fled from Urbino in the night, and in her company were gone three of her ladies, and—it was also supposed, since they had disappeared—Fra Domenico and Romeo Gonzaga.
Aghast at what he heard, Francesco pressed his informer for more news; but there was little more that the captain could tell him, beyond the fact that it was believed she had been driven to it to escape her impending marriage with the Duke of Babbiano. Guidobaldo was distraught at what had happened, and anxious to bring the lady back before news of her behaviour should reach the ears of Gian Maria. It was, therefore, a matter of no little satisfaction to the captain that the task should be his to bear Guidobaldo this news of her whereabouts which from Francesco and the jester he had derived.
Peppe looked glum and sullen. Had he but bridled his cursed curiosity, and had the Count but taken the alarm in time and held his peace, all might have been well with his beloved patrona. As it was, he—the one man ready to die that he might serve her—had been the very one to betray her refuge. He heard the Count's laugh, and the sound of it was fuel to his anger. But Francesco only thought of the splendid daring of the lady's action.
“But these men-at-arms that she had with her?” he cried. “For what purpose so numerous a bodyguard?”
The captain looked at him a moment.
“Can you not guess?” he inquired. “Perhaps you do not know the Castle of Roccaleone.”
“It were odd if I did not know the most impregnable fortress in Italy.”
“Why, then, does it not become clear? She has taken this company for a garrison, and in Roccaleone she clearly intends to resist in rebel fashion the wishes of his Highness.”
At that the Count threw back his head, and scared the passers-by with as hearty a peal of laughter as ever crossed his lips.
“By the Host!” he gasped, laughter still choking his utterance. “There is a maid for you! Do you hear what the captain says, Fanfulla? She means to resist this wedding by armed force if needs be. Now, on my soul, if Guidobaldo insists upon the union after this, why, then, he has no heart, no feeling. As I live, she is a kinswoman that such a warlike prince might well be proud of. Small wonder that they do not fear the Borgia in Urbino.” And he laughed again. But the captain scowled at him, and Peppe frowned.
“She is a rebellious jade,” quoth the captain sourly.
“Nay, softly,” returned Francesco; for all that he still laughed. “If you were of knightly rank I'd break a lance with you on that score. As it is——” he paused, his laughter ceased, and his dark eyes took the captain's measure in a curious way. “Best leave her uncensured, Ser Capitano. She is of the house of Rovere, and closely allied to that of Montefeltro.”
The officer felt the rebuke, and silence reigned between them after that.
It was whilst Francesco, Fanfulla and Peppe waited in the ante-chamber for admittance to the Duke that the jester vented some of the bitterness he felt at their babbling. The splendid room was thronged with a courtly crowd. There were magnificent nobles and envoys, dark ecclesiastics and purple prelates, captains in steel and court officers in silk and velvet. Yet, heedless of who might hear him, Peppe voiced his rebuke, and the terms he employed were neither as measured nor as respectful as the Count's rank dictated. Yet with that fairness of mind that made him so universally beloved, Francesco offered no resentment to the fool's reproof. He saw that it was deserved, for it threw upon the matter a light that was new and more searching. But he presently saw further than did the fool, and he smiled at the other's scowls.
“Not so loud Peppe,” said he. “You over-estimate the harm. At worst, we have but anticipated by a little what the Duke must have learnt from other sources.”
“But it is just that little—the few hours or days—that will do the mischief,” snapped the jester testily, for all that he lowered his voice. “In a few days Gian Maria will be back. If he were met with the news that the Lady Valentina were missing, that she had run away with Romeo Gonzaga—for that, you'll see, will presently be the tale—do you think he would linger here, or further care to pursue his wooing? Not he. These alliances that are for State purposes alone, in which the heart plays no part, demand, at least, that on the lady's side there shall be a record unblemished by the breath of scandal. His Highness would have returned him home, and Madonna would have been rid of him.”
“But at a strange price, Peppe,” answered Franeesco gravely. “Still,” he added, “I agree that I would have served her purpose better by keeping silent. But that such an affair will cool the ardour of my cousin I do not think. You are wrong in placing this among the alliances in which the heart has no part. On my cousin's side—if all they say be true—the heart plays a very considerable part indeed. But, for the rest—what harm have we done?”
“Time will show,” said the hunchback.
“It will show, then, that I have done no hurt whatever to her interests. By now she is safe in Roccaleone. What, then, can befall her? Guidobaldo, no doubt, will repair to her, and across the moat he will entreat her to be a dutiful niece and to return. She will offer to do so on condition that he pass her his princely word not to further molest her with the matter of this marriage. And then?”
“Well?” growled the fool, “And then? Who shall say what may befall then? Let us say that his Highness reduces her by force.”
“A siege?” laughed the Count. “Pooh! Where is your wisdom, fool! Do you think the splendid Guidobaldo is eager to become the sport of Italy, and go down to posterity as the duke who besieged his niece because she resisted his ordainings touching the matter of her wedding?”
“Guidobaldo da Montefeltro can be a violent man upon occasion,” the fool was answering, when the officer who had left them reappeared with the announcement that his Highness awaited them.
They found the Prince in a very gloomy mood, and after greeting Francesco with cool ceremony, he questioned him on the matter of the company they had met yesternight. These inquiries he conducted with characteristic dignity, and no more show of concern than if it had been an affair of a strayed falcon. He thanked Francesco for his information, and gave orders that the seneschal should place apartments at his and Fanfulla's disposal for as long as it should please them to grace his court. With that he dismissed them, bidding the officer remain to receive his orders.
“And that,” said Francesco to Peppe, as they crossed the ante-chamber in the wake of a servant, “is the man who would lay siege to his niece's castle? For once, sir fool, your wisdom is at fault.”
“You do not know the Duke, Excellency,” answered the fool. “Beneath that frozen exterior burns a furnace, and there is no madness he would not commit.”
But Francesco only laughed as, linking arms with Fanfulla, he passed down the gallery on his way to the apartments to which the servant was conducting them.
In a measure the events that followed would almost tend to show that the fool was right. For even if the notion of besieging Valentina and reducing her by force of arms was not Guidobaldo's own in the first place, yet he lent a very willing ear to the counsel that they should thus proceed, when angrily urged two days thereafter by the Duke of Babbiano.
Upon hearing the news Gian Maria had abandoned himself to such a licence of rage as made those about him tremble from the highest to the meanest. The disappointment of his passion was in itself justification enough for this; but, in addition, Gian Maria beheld in the flight of Valentina the frustration of those bold schemes of which had talked so loudly to his councillors and his mother. It was his confidence in those same schemes that had induced him to send that defiant answer to Caesar Borgia. As a consequence of this there was haste—most desperate haste—that he should wed, since wedding was to lend him the power to carry out his brave promises of protecting his crown from the Duke of Valentinois, not to speak of the utter routing of the Borgia which he had wildly undertaken to accomplish.
That the destinies of States should be tossed to the winds of Heaven by a slip of a girl was to him something as insufferable as it had been unexpected.
“She must be brought back!” he had screeched, in his towering passion. “She must be brought back at once.”
“True!” answered Guidobaldo, in his serene way; “she must be brought back. So far, I agree with you entirely. Tell me, now, how the thing is to be accomplished.” And there was sarcasm in his voice.
“What difficulties does it present?” inquired Gian Maria.
“No difficulties,” was the ironical reply. “She has shut herself up in the stoutest castle in Italy, and tells me that she will not come forth until I promise her freedom of choice in the matter of marriage. Clearly, there are no difficulties attached to her being brought back.”
Gian Maria showed his teeth.
“Do you give me leave to go about it in my own way?” he asked.
“Not only do I give you leave, but I'll render you all the assistance in my power, if you can devise a means for luring her from Roccaleone.”
“I hesitate no longer. Your niece, Lord Duke, is a rebel, and as a rebel is she to be treated. She has garrisoned a castle, and hurled defiance at the ruler of the land. It is a declaration of war, Highness, and war we shall have.”
“You would resort to force?” asked Guidobaldo, disapproval lurking in his voice.
“To the force of arms, your Highness,” answered Gian Maria, with prompt fierceness. “I will lay siege to this castle of hers, and I shall tear it stone from stone. Oh, I would have wooed her nicely had she let me, with gentle words and mincing ways that maidens love. But since she defies us, I'll woo her with arquebuse and cannon, and seek by starvation to make her surrender to my suit. My love shall put on armour to subject her, and I vow to God that I shall not shave my beard until I am inside her castle.”
Guidobaldo looked grave.
“I should counsel gentler measures,” said he. “Besiege her if you will, but do not resort to too much violence. Cut off their resources and let hunger be your advocate. Even so, I fear me, you will be laughed at by all Italy,” he added bluntly.
“A fig for that! Let the fools laugh if they be minded to. What forces has she at Roccaleone?”
At the question Guidobaldo's brow grew dark. It was as if he had recalled some circumstance that had lain forgotten.
“Some twenty knaves led by a notorious ruffian of the name of Fortemani. The company was enrolled, they tell me, by a gentleman of my court, a kinsman of my Duchess, Messer Romeo Gonzaga.”
“Is he with her now?” gasped Gian Maria.
“It would seem he is.”
“By the Virgin's Ring of Perugia!” spluttered Gian Maria in increased dismay. “Do you suggest that they fled together?”
“My lord!” Guidobaldo's voice rang sharp and threatening. “It is of my niece that you are speaking. She took this gentleman with her just as she took three of her ladies and a page or two, to form such attendance as befits her birth.”
Gian Maria took a turn in the apartment, a frown wrinkling his brow, and his lips pressed tight. Guidobaldo's proud words by no means convinced him. But the one preponderating desire in his heart just then was to humble the girl who had dared to flout him, to make her bend her stubborn neck. At last:
“I may indeed become the laughing-stock of Italy,” he muttered, in a concentrated voice, “but I shall carry my resolve through, and my first act upon entering Roccaleone will be to hang this knave Gonzaga from its highest turret.”
That very day Gian Maria began his preparations for the expedition against Roccaleone, and word of it was carried by Fanfulla to Francesco—for the latter had left his quarters at the palace upon hearing of Gian Maria's coming, and was now lodging at the sign of the “Sun.”
Upon hearing the news he swore a mighty oath in which he consigned his cousin to the devil, by whom, in that moment, he pronounced him begotten.
“Do you think,” he asked, when he was calmer, “that this man Gonzaga is her lover?”
“It is more than I can say,” answered Fanfulla. “There is the fact that she fled with him. Though when I questioned Peppe on this same subject he first laughed the notion to scorn, and then grew grave. 'She loves him not, the popinjay,' he said; 'but he loves her, or I am blind else, and he's a villain, I know.'”
Francesco stood up, his face mighty serious, and his dark eyes full of uneasy thought.
“By the Host! It is a shameful thing,” he cried out at last. “This poor lady so beset on every hand by a parcel of villains, each more unscrupulous than the other. Fanfulla, send for Peppe. We must despatch the fool to her with warning of Gian Maria's coming, and warning, too, against this man of Mantua she has fled with.”
“Too late,” answered Fanfulla. “The fool departed this morning for Roccaleone, to join his patrona.”
Francesco looked his dismay.
“She will be undone,” he groaned. “Thus between the upper and the nether stone—between Gian Maria and Romeo Gonzaga. Gesù! she will be undone! And she so brave and so high-spirited!”
He moved slowly to the casement, and stood staring at the windows across the street, on which the setting sun fell in a ruddy glow. But it was not the windows that he saw. It was a scene in the woods at Acquasparta on that morning after the mountain fight; a man lying wounded in the bracken, and over him a gentle lady bending with eyes of pity and solicitude. Often since had his thoughts revisited that scene, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a sigh, and sometimes with both at once.
He turned suddenly upon Fanfulla. “I will go myself,” he announced.
“You?” echoed Fanfulla. “But the Venetians?”
By a gesture the Count signified how little the Venetians weighed with him when compared with the fortunes of this lady.
“I am going to Roccaleone,” he insisted, “now—at once.” And striding to the door he beat his hands together and called Lanciotto.
“You said, Fanfulla, that in these days there are no longer maidens held in bondage to whom a knight-errant may lend aid. You were at fault, for in Monna Valentina we have the captive maiden, in my cousin the dragon, in Gonzaga another, and in me the errant knight who is destined—I hope—to save her.”
“You will save her from Gian Maria?” questioned Fanfulla incredulously.
“I will attempt it.”
He turned to his servant, who entered as he spoke.
“We set out in a quarter of an hour, Lanciotto,” said he. “Saddle for me and for yourself. You are to go with me. Zaccaria may remain with Messer degli Arcipreti. You will care for him, Fanfulla, and he will serve you well.”
“But what of me?” cried Fanfulla. “Do I not accompany you?”
“If you will, yes. But you might serve me better by returning to Babbiano and watching the events there, sending me word of what befalls—for great things will befall soon if my cousin returns not and the Borgia advances. It is upon this that I am founding such hopes as I have.”
“But whither shall I send you word? To Roccaleone?”
Francesco reflected a moment. “If you do not hear from me, then send your news to Roccaleone, for if I should linger there and we are besieged, it will perhaps be impossible to send a message to you. But if—as I hope—I go to Aquila, I will send you word of it.”
“To Aquila?”
“Yes. It may be that I shall be at Aquila before the week is out. But keep it secret, Fanfulla, and I'll fool these dukes to the very top of their unhealthy bent.”
A half-hour later the Count of Aquila, mounted on a stout Calabrian horse, and attended by Lanciotto on a mule, rode gently down towards the valley. They went unnoticed, for what cared for them the peasants that sang at their labours in the contado?
They met a merchant, whose servant was urging his laden sumpters up the hilly road to the city on the heights, and they passed him with a courteous greeting. Farther they came upon a mounted company of nobles and ladies, returning from a hawking party, and followed by attendants bearing their hooded falcons, and their gay laughter still rang in Francesco's ears after he had passed from their sight and vanished in the purple mists of eventide that came up to meet him from the river.
They turned westward towards the Apennines, and pushed on after night had fallen, until the fourth hour, when at Francesco's suggestion they drew rein before a sleepy, wayside locanda, and awoke the host to demand shelter. There they slept no longer than until matins, so that the grey light of dawn saw them once more upon their way, and by the time the sun had struck with its first golden shaft the grey crest of the old hills, they drew rein on the brink of the roaring torrent at the foot of the mighty crag that was crowned by the Castle of Roccaleone.
Grim and gaunt it loomed above the fertile vale, with that torrent circling it in a natural moat, like a giant sentinel of the Apennines that were its background. And now the sunlight raced down the slopes of the old mountains like a tide. It smote the square tower of the keep, then flowed adown the wall, setting the old grey stone a-gleaming, and flashing back from a mullioned window placed high up. Lower it came, revealing grotesque gargoyles, flooding the crenellated battlements and turning green the ivy and lichen that but a moment back had blackened the stout, projecting buttresses. Thence it leapt to the ground, and drove the shadow before it down the grassy slope, until it reached the stream and sparkled on its foaming, tumbling waters, scattering a hundred colours through the flying spray.
And all that time, until the sun had reached him and included him in the picture it was awakening, the Count of Aquila sat in his saddle, with thoughtful eyes uplifted to the fortress.
Then, Lanciotto following him, he walked his horse round the western side, where the torrent was replaced by a smooth arm of water, for which a cutting had been made to complete the isolation of the crag of Roccaleone. But here, where the castle might more easily have become vulnerable, a blank wall greeted him, broken by no more than a narrow slit or two midway below the battlements. He rode on towards the northern side, crossing a footbridge that spanned the river, and at last coming to a halt before the entrance tower. Here again the moat was formed by the torrential waters of the mountain stream.
He bade his servant rouse the inmates, and Lanciotto hallooed in a voice that nature had made deep and powerful. The echo of it went booming up to scare the birds on the hillside, but evoked no answer from the silent castle.
“They keep a zealous watch,” laughed the Count. “Again, Lanciotto.”
The man obeyed him, and again and again his deep voice rang out like a trumpet-call before sign was made from within that it had been heard. At length, above the parapet of the tower appeared a stunted figure with head unkempt, as grotesque almost as any of the gargoyles beneath, and an owlish face peered at them from one of the crenels of the battlement, and demanded, in surly, croaking tones their business. Instantly the Count recognised Peppe.
“Good morrow, fool,” he bade him.
“You, my lord?” exclaimed the jester.
“You sleep soundly at Roccaleone,” quoth Francesco. “Bestir that knavish garrison of yours, and bid the lazy dogs let down the bridge. I have news for Monna Valentina.”
“At once, Excellency,” the fool replied, and would have gone upon the instant but that Francesco recalled him.
“Say, Peppe, a knight—the knight she met at Acquasparta, if you will. But leave my name unspoken.”
With the assurance that he would obey his wishes Peppe went his errand. A slight delay ensued, and then upon the battlements appeared Gonzaga, sleepy and contentious, attended by a couple of Fortemani's knaves, who came to ask the nature of Francesco's business.
“It is with Monna Valentina,” answered him Francesco, raising head and voice, so that Gonzaga recognised him for the wounded knight of Acquasparta, remembered and scowled.
“I am Monna Valentina's captain here,” he announced, with arrogance. “And you may deliver to me such messages as you bear.”
There followed a contention, conducted ill-humouredly on the part of Gonzaga and scarcely less so on the Count's, Francesco stoutly refusing to communicate his business to any but Valentina, and Gonzaga as stoutly refusing to disturb the lady at that hour, or to lower the bridge. Words flew between them across the waters of the moat, and grew hotter at each fresh exchange, till in the end they were abruptly terminated by the appearance of Valentina herself, attended by Peppino.
“What is this, Gonzaga?” she inquired, her manner excited, for the fool had told her that it was the knight Francesco who sought admittance, and at the very mention of the name she had flushed, then paled, then started for the ramparts. “Why is this knight denied admittance since he bears a message for me?” And from where she stood she sought with admiring eyes the graceful shape of the Count of Aquila—the knight-errant of her dreams. Francesco bared his head, and bent to the withers of his horse in courteous greeting. She turned to Gonzaga impatiently.
“For what do you wait?” she cried. “Have you not understood my wishes? Let the bridge be lowered.”
“Bethink you, Madonna,” he remonstrated. “You do not know this man. He may be a spy of Gian Maria's—a hireling paid to betray us.”
“You fool,” she answered sharply. “Do you not see that it is the wounded knight we met that day you were escorting me to Urbino?”
“What shall that signify?” demanded he. “Is it proof of his honesty of purpose or loyalty to you? Be advised, Madonna, and let him deliver his message from where he is. He is safer there.”
She measured him with a determined eye.
“Messer Gonzaga, order them to lower the bridge,” she bade him.
“But, lady, bethink you of your peril.”
“Peril?” she echoed. “Peril from two men, and we a garrison of over twenty? Surely the man is a coward who talks so readily of perils. Have the drawbridge lowered.”
“But if——” he began, with a desperate vehemence, when again she cut him short.
“Am I to be obeyed? Am I mistress, and will you bid them lower the bridge, or must I, myself, go see to it?”
With a look of despairing anger and a shrug of the shoulders he turned from her, and despatched one of his men with an order. A few moments later, with a creaking of hinges and a clanking of chains, the great bridge swung down and dropped with a thud to span the gulf. Instantly the Count spurred his horse forward, and followed by Lanciotto rode across the plank and under the archway of the entrance tower into the first courtyard.
Now, scarcely had he drawn rein there when through a door at the far end appeared the gigantic figure of Fortemani, half-clad and sword in hand. At sight of Francesco the fellow leaped down a half-dozen steps, and advanced towards him with a burst of oaths.
“To me!” he shouted, in a voice that might have waked the dead. “Olá! Olá! What devil's work is this? How come you here? By whose orders was the bridge let down?”
“By the orders of Monna Valentina's captain,” answered Francesco, wondering what madman might be this.
“Captain?” cried the other, coming to a standstill and his face turning purple. “Body of Satan! What captain? I am captain here.”
The Count looked him over in surprise.
“Why, then,” said he, “you are the very man I seek. I congratulate you on the watch you keep, Messer Capitano. Your castle is so excellently patrolled that had I been minded for a climb I had scaled your walls and got within your gates without arousing any of your slumbering sentries.”
Fortemani eyed him with a lowering glance. The prosperity of the past four days had increased the insolence inherent in the man.
“Is that your affair?” he growled menacingly. “You are over-bold, sir stranger, to seek a quarrel with me, and over-pert to tell me how I shall discharge my captaincy. By the Passion! You shall be punished.”
“Punished—I?” echoed Francesco, on whose brow there now descended a scowl as black as Ercole's own.
“Aye, punished, young sir. Ercole Fortemani is my name.”
“I have heard of you,” answered the Count contemptuously, “and of how you belie that name of yours, for they tell me that a more drunken, cowardly, good-for-nothing rogue is not to be found in Italy—no, not even in the Pope's dominions. And have a care how you cast the word 'punishment' at your betters, animal. The moat is none so distant, and the immersion may profit you. For I'll swear you've not been washed since they baptized you—if, indeed, you be a son of Mother Church at all.”
“Sangue di Cristo!” spluttered the enraged bully, his face mottled. “This to me? Come down from that horse.”
He laid hold of Francesco's leg to drag him to the ground, but the Count wrenched it free by a quick motion that left a gash from his spur upon the captain's hands. Simultaneously he raised his whip, and would have laid the lash of it across the broad of Fortemani's back—for it had angered him beyond words to have a ruffian of this fellow's quality seeking to ruffle it with him—but at that moment a female voice, stern and imperative, bade them hold in their quarrel.
Fortemani fell back nursing his lacerated hand and muttering curses, whilst Francesco turned in the direction whence that voice had come. Midway on the flight of stone steps he beheld Valentina, followed by Gonzaga, Peppe, and a couple of men-at-arms, descending from the battlements.
Calm and queenly she stood, dressed in a camorra of grey velvet with black sleeves, which excellently set off her handsome height. Gonzaga was leaning forward, speaking into her ear, and for all that his voice was subdued, some of his words travelled down to Francesco on the still, morning air.
“Was I not wise, Madonna, in that I hesitated to admit him? You see what manner of man he is.”
The blood flamed in Francesco's cheeks, nor did it soften his chagrin to note the look which Valentina flashed down at him.
Instantly he leapt to the ground, and flinging his reins to Lanciotto he went forward to the foot of that stone staircase, his broad hat slung back upon his shoulders, to meet that descending company.
“Is this seemly, sir?” she questioned angrily. “Does it become you to brawl with my garrison the moment you are admitted?”
The blood rose higher in Francesco's face, and now suffused his temples and reached his hair. Yet his voice was well restrained as he made answer:
“Madonna, this knave was insolent.”
“An insolence that you no doubt provoked,” put in Gonzaga, a dimple showing on his woman's cheek. But the sterner rebuke fell from the lips of Valentina.
“Knave?” she questioned, with flushed countenance. “If you would not have me regret your admittance, Messer Francesco, I pray you curb your words. Here are no knaves. That, sir, is the captain of my soldiers.”
Francesco bowed submissively, as patient under her reproof as he had been hasty under Fortemani's.
“It was on the matter of this captaincy that we fell to words,” he answered, with more humility. “By his own announcement I understood this nobleman”—and his eyes turned to Gonzaga—“to be your captain.”
“He is the captain of my castle,” she informed him.
“As you see, Ser Francesco,” put in Peppe, who had perched himself upon the balustrade, “we suffer from no lack of captains here. We have also Fra Domenico, who is captain of our souls and of the kitchen; myself am captain of——”
“Devil take you, fool,” snapped Gonzaga, thrusting him roughly from his perch. Then turning abruptly to the Count: “You bear a message for us, sir?” he questioned loftily.
Swallowing the cavalier tone, and overlooking the pronoun Gonzaga employed, Francesco inclined his head again to the lady.
“I should prefer to deliver it in more privacy than this.” And his eye travelled round the court and up the steps behind, where was now collected the entire company of Fortemani. Gonzaga sneered and tossed his golden curls, but Valentina saw naught unreasonable in the request, and bidding Romeo attend her and Francesco follow, she led the way.
They crossed the quadrangle, and, mounting the steps down which Fortemani had dashed to meet the Count, they passed into the banqueting-hall, which opened directly upon the south side of the courtyard. The Count, following in her wake, ran the gauntlet of scowls of the assembled mercenaries. He stalked past them unmoved, taking their measure as he went, and estimating their true value with the unerring eye of the practised condottiero who has had to do with the enrolling of men and the handling of them. So little did he like their looks that on the threshold of the hall he paused and stayed Gonzaga.
“I am loath to leave my servant at the mercy of those ruffians, sir. May I beg that you will warn them against offering him violence?”
“Ruffians?” cried the lady angrily, before Gonzaga could offer a reply. “They are my soldiers.”
Again he bowed, and there was a cold politeness in the tones in which he answered her:
“I crave your pardon, and I will say no more—unless it be to deplore that I may not felicitate you on your choice.”
It was Gonzaga's turn to wax angry, for the choice had been his.
“Your message will have need to be a weighty one, sir, to earn our patience for your impertinence.”
Francesco returned the look of those blue eyes which vainly sought to flash ferociously, and he made little attempt to keep his scorn from showing in his glance. He permitted himself even to shrug his shoulders a trifle impatiently.
“Indeed, indeed, I think that I had best begone,” he answered regretfully, “for it is a place whose inmates seem all bent on quarrelling with me. First your captain Fortemani greets me with an insolence hard to leave unpunished. You, yourself, Madonna, resent that I should crave protection for my man against those fellows whose looks give rise for my solicitation. You are angry that I should dub them ruffians, as if I had followed the calling of arms these ten years without acquiring knowledge of the quality of a man however much you may disguise him. And lastly, to crown all, this cicisbeo”—and he spread a hand contemptuously towards Gonzaga—“speaks of my impertinences.”
“Madonna,” cried Gonzaga, “I beg that you will let me deal with him.”
Unwittingly, unwillingly, Gonzaga saved the situation by that prayer. The anger that was fast rising in Madonna's heart, stirred by the proud bearing of the Count, was scattered before the unconscious humour of her captain's appeal, in such ludicrous contrast was his mincing speech and slender figure with Francesco's firm tones and lean, active height. She did not laugh, for that would have been to have spoilt all, but she looked from one to the other with quiet relish, noting the glance of surprise and raised eyebrows with which the Count received the courtier's request to be let deal with him. And thus, being turned from anger, the balance of her mind was quick to adjust itself, and she bethought her that perhaps there was reason in what this knight advanced, and that his reception had lacked the courtesy that was his due. In a moment, with incomparable grace and skill, she had soothed Gonzaga's ruffled vanity, and appeased the Count's more sturdy resentment.
“And now, Messer Francesco,” she concluded, “let us be friends, and let me hear your business. I beg that you will sit.”
They had passed into the banqueting-hall—a noble apartment, whose walls were frescoed with hunting and pastoral scenes, one or two of which were the work of Pisaniello. There were, too, some stray trophies of the chase, and, here and there, a suit of costly armour that caught the sunlight pouring through the tall, mullioned windows. At the far end stood a richly carved screen of cedar, and above this appeared the twisted railing of the minstrels' gallery. In a tall armchair of untanned leather, at the head of the capacious board, Monna Valentina sat herself, Gonzaga taking his stand at her elbow, and Francesco fronting her, leaning lightly against the table.
“The news I bear you, lady, is soon told,” said the Count. “I would its quality were better. Your suitor Gian Maria returning to Guidobaldo's court, eager for the nuptials that were promised him, has learnt of your flight to Roccaleone and is raising—indeed will have raised by now—an army to invest and reduce your fortress.”
Gonzaga turned as pale as the vest of white silk that gleamed beneath his doublet of pearl-coloured velvet at this realisation of the prophecies he had uttered without believing. A sickly fear possessed his soul. What fate would they mete out to him who had been the leading spirit in Valentina's rebellion? He could have groaned aloud at this miscarriage of all his fine plans. Where now would be the time to talk of love, to press and carry his suit with Valentina and render himself her husband? There would be war in the air, and bloody work that made his skin creep and turn cold to ponder on. And the irony of it all was keenly cruel. It was the very contingency that he had prophesied, assured that neither Guidobaldo nor Gian Maria would be so mad as to court ridicule by engaging upon it.
For a second Francesco's eyes rested on the courtier's face, and saw the fear written there for all to read. The shadow of a smile quivered on his lips as his glance moved on to meet the eyes of Valentina, sparkling as sparkles frost beneath the sun.
“Why, let them come!” she exclaimed, almost in exultation. “This ducal oaf shall find me very ready for him. We are armed at all points. We have victuals to last us three months, if need be, and we have no lack of weapons. Let Gian Maria come, and he will find Valentina della Rovere none so easy to reduce. To you, sir,” she continued, with more calm, “to you on whom I have no claim, I am more than grateful for your chivalrous act in riding here to warn me.”
Francesco sighed; a look of regret crossed his face.
“Alas!” he said. “When I rode hither, Madonna, I had hoped to serve you to a better purpose. I had advice to offer and assistance if you should need it; but the sight of those men-at-arms of yours makes me fear that it is not advice upon which it would be wise to act. For the plan I had in mind, it would be of the first importance that your soldiers should be trustworthy, and this, I fear me, they are not.”
“Nevertheless,” put in Gonzaga feverishly, clinging to a slender hope, “let us hear it.”
“I beg that you will,” said Valentina.