avelli yawned, and gazed speculatively at the hour-glass on his table.
At the hour before dinner on the third night, Messer Machiavelli was startled out of his revery by the sudden appearance of his lackey, Giulio.
"He visited at Luigi Reni's," said Giulio abruptly.
"And this Reni?" queried Machiavelli with arched brows.
"Is a magician," answered Giulio suggestively.
"Ah! And what did the Borgia there?"
"He brought with him and left at Reni's a small portrait of the Duke Paolo di Colonna. That was yesterday. Today he went again, and the portrait was returned to him, together with a large package. This package contained, I have made certain, numerous curiously wrought candles for the table tonight."
"That is all?"
"Other than that is of no account. The Borgia prince attended to the usual matters of his troops."
Messer Machiavelli toyed with a quill on his table. "What make you of the candles, Giulio?" he asked.
The lackey smiled suggestively. He hunched his shoulders and spread his hands in an empty gesture.
"Who knows?" he said. "The Borgia takes a portrait of his enemy to a magician, and receives at its return a packet of wax candles. It is said that if one burns a wax effigy of one's foe, made according to certain secret formulas, or if one pierces it to the heart, the model dies."
Messer Machiavelli pondered a space. "How many figures are needed? How many must be burned to rid oneself of an enemy?"
"But one, Excellency. But Cesare is a true Borgia. His resources know no end."
Messer Machiavelli nodded. "It is good work, Giulio; I shall not forget it."
The lackey bowed and vanished in the shadows at the rear of the tent. Messer Machiavelli rose and donned a great cloak. He raised the flap of his tent and looked out at the cloudless sky. Far away, on the horizon toward the east, the full moon was just rising above the hills, and from the marshlands to the west thin wisps of vapor were moving toward the camp. Messer Machiavelli glanced dubiously at the hour-glass on the table, saw that the sand had passed the half-hour, and slipped out of his tent.
At the banquet hall the young Paolo di Colonna was the center of a boisterous crowd. Cesare Borgia stood some distance away from him, and was the first to greet the Florentine envoy at his arrival. Messer Machiavelli sought vainly for some trace, some premonition on the inscrutable face of his host; there was naught save a sardonic smile. Messer Machiavelli was uneasy; he bethought himself of the pending alliance between the Council of Ten and di Colonna. He resolved to keep a watchful eye on the Borgia ring, which he knew served as a container for the white powder that Cesare had once shown him. He had often been told that for the Borgia prince to open this ring meant instant death for someone.
Messer Machiavelli moved somewhat closer to the table, the better to observe what Cesare Borgia was occupied with. He gave an involuntary start when he noticed that the prince himself was distributing before the places at table the carven candles that he had received from the magician, Reni. He sought out the place reserved for the prince, and found it quickly by the banner of the Bull draped over the back of the chair. Directly opposite this chair stood one marked with the arms of di Colonna. Messer Machiavelli's eyes strayed unconsciously to the wax figure before his own plate, set at the
