The Justice of the Duke (collection)/The Lust of Conquest

by Rafael Sabatini

 

THE LUST OF CONQUEST

The hour of Cesare Borgia's power and glory was that of full noontide. He had made an end of the treacherous condottieri who had dared to rise against him and for a moment to hold him in check, threatening not only to arrest his conquering progress but to undo all that he had done. He had limed a springe for them at Sinigaglia, and—in the words of the Florentine Secretary, Machiavelli—he had lured them thither by the sweetness of his whistling. They came the more readily in that they mistook their rôles, conceiving themselves the fowlers, and him the victim. He quickly disabused their minds on that score; and having taken them, he wrung their necks with no more compunction than had they been so many capons. Their considerable forces he partly destroyed and dispersed, partly assimilated into his own vast army, whereafter he swept southward and homeward to Rome by way of Umbria.

In Perugia his sometime captain, Gianpaolo Baglioni, one of the more fortunate rebels who had escaped him, was arming to resist him, and making big talk of the reckoning he would present to Cesare Borgia. But when from the high-perched eyrie of his ancient Etruscan stronghold, Gianpaolo caught afar the first gleam of arms in the white January sunshine, he talked no more. He packed instead, and fled discreetly, intent to reach Siena and take shelter with Petrucci.

And no sooner was he gone than Perugia—which for generations had been weary of his blood-smeared family—sent ambassadors with messages of welcome to the Duke.

Gianpaolo heard of this in Assisi, and his rage was a prodigy even for a Baglioni. He was a black-browed, powerful man, built like an ape with a long body and short legs, a fine soldier, as all the world knows, endowed with a reckless courage and a persuasive tongue that lured men to follow him. In quitting Perugia, he had listened for once to the voice of discretion, urged by the cold and calculating quality of his hatred of the Borgia, and by the hope that in alliance with Petrucci he might stir up Tuscany, and so return in force against the duke.

But now that he had word of how cravenly—as he accounted it—his city of Perugia had not only bent her neck to the yoke of the conqueror, which was perhaps inevitable, but had further bent the knee in homage and held out her arms in welcome, he repented him fiercely of his departure, and was blinded to reason by his rage.

He was so mad as to attempt to induce Assisi to resist the advancing Duke. But the city of St Francis bade the belligerent Gianpaolo go with God ere the Duke arrived; for the Duke was already on his way, and did he find Gianpaolo there, the latter would assuredly share the fate which had visited his fellow-rebels.

Baglioni angrily took his departure, to pursue his road to Siena. But some three miles to the south of Assisi he drew rein, and lifted his eyes to the stronghold of Solignola, poised, gaunt and grey, upon a projecting crag of the Subasian hills. It was the lair of that indomitable old wolf Count Guido degli Speranzoni, whose pride was as the pride of Lucifer, whose fierceness was as the fierceness of the Baglioni—to which family he claimed kinship through his mother—whose defiance of the Pope was as the defiance of an infidel.

Gianpaolo sat his horse under the drizzling rain, and considered Solignola awhile, with pursed lips. To-night, he reflected, Cesare would lie at Assisi, which was as ready as a strumpet for surrender. To-morrow his envoys would wait upon the Lord of Solignola, and surely, if he knew the old warrior, Count Guido's answer would be a haughty refusal to receive the Duke.

He took his resolve. He would ride up, and seek out Speranzoni. If the Count were indeed prepared for resistance, Gianpaolo had that to say that should encourage him. If his resoluteness had not been weakened, as had most men's, by the mere approach of Cesare Borgia, then it might yet come to pass that here they should do the thing that at Sinigaglia had so grievously miscarried. Thus should his strangled comrades be avenged, and thus should Italy be rid of this scourge. Of that same scourge, as he now dubbed the Lord Cesare Borgia, he had himself but lately been one of the thongs. But Messer Gianpaolo was not subtle.

He turned to his armoured followers—a score or so of men-at-arms who remained faithful to him in this hour of general defection—and made known his intention to ride up to Solignola. Then, by a winding mountain path, he led the way thither.

As they ascended from the vast plain of Umbria, so leafless, grey and desolate under that leaden wintry sky, they perceived through a gap in the hills the cluster of little townships and hamlets, on the slopes and in the eastern valley, which formed the territory and dominion of Solignola. These lay practically without defences, and they must fall an easy prey to the Duke. But Baglioni knew that the fierce old Count was not the man to allow any such considerations to weaken his resolve to resist the Borgia, and to that resolve Gianpaolo hoped to spur him.

Dusk was descending when the little company of Perugians reached the Northern Gate of Solignola, and the bells of the Duomo were ringing the Angelus—the evening prayer in honour of the Blessed Mother of Chastity revived in Italy by the unchaste Borgia Pope. Baglioni's party clattered over the bridge spanning a chasm in the rocks in the depths of which a foaming mountain torrent, swollen and umber-tinted by the recent rains, hurled itself adown its headlong course to join the Tiber in the valley.

Having satisfied the guard, they rode forward into the city and up the steep long street to the Rocca, regarded with awe by the burghers, who looked upon them as the harbingers of this invasion which they knew to be sweeping towards them from the north.

Thus they came to the mighty citadel and thudded over the drawbridge into the great courtyard, where they were instantly hemmed about by a swarm of men-at-arms who demanded of them not only an account of themselves, but news as well of Cesare Borgia's army. Gianpaolo satisfied them briefly, announced his name, and demanded to see Count Guido at once.

The Lord of Solignola sat in council in the Sala degli Angioli—a chamber so known from the fresco which Luini had painted on the ceiling, representing the opening heavens and a vision of angels beyond the parted clouds. With the Count sat Messer del Campo, the President of the Council of Anziani, Messer Pino Paviano, the Master of the Artificers' Guild, two gentlemen from the valley—the Lords of Aldi and Barbero—a gentleman of Assisi—Messer Gianluca della Pieve—and the Count's two principal officers, the Seneschal of Solignola and the condottiero Santafiora.

They sat about a long, quadrangular oak table in the thickening gloom, with no other light but that of the log fire that roared under the wide cowled chimney; and with them, at the foot of the table, facing the Count, odd member of this warlike council, sat a woman—the Lady Panthasilea degli Speranzoni, Count Guido's daughter. In years she was little more than a girl; in form and face she showed a glorious maturity of woman hood; in mind and character she was a very man. To describe her the scholarly Cerbone had already, a year ago, made use of the term 'virago'—not in its perverted, but in its literal and original meaning, signifying a woman who in intellect and spirit is a man.

It was by virtue of these endowments as much as because she was Count Guido's only child and heir, that she attended now this council, and listened gravely to all that was urged in this matter of the Borgia invasion. She was magnificently tall, and very regal in her bearing and in the carriage of her glorious head. Her eyes were large, dark and lustrous; her hair of a glowing copper; and her tint of the delicate fairness that is attributed to the daughters of the north. The rich colour of her sensitive lips told of the warm blood that flowed in her; their set and shape bore witness to her courage and her will.

Into this assembly, which rose eagerly to receive him, was ushered the Lord Gianpaolo Baglioni. He clanked into the room upon his muscular bowed legs, a sinister figure as seen in the gloom with the firelight playing ruddily upon his armour and his swarthy black- bearded face.

Count Guido advanced to embrace him and to greet him with words of very cordial welcome, which at once told the crafty Baglioni all that he most desired to know. The Count presented him to the company, and invited him to join their council, since his arrival was so timely and since, no doubt, he would be able to offer them advice of which they stood most sorely in need, that they might determine upon their course of action.

He thanked them for the honour, and dropped with a rattle of metal into the proffered chair. Count Guido called for lights, and when these were fetched they revealed the haggard air of Messer Gianpaolo which was accentuated by the splashed harness in which he came amongst them, just as he had ridden. His smouldering eye travelled round the board, and when it found the Assisian gentleman, Gianluca della Pieve, he smiled sombrely.

“Hard though I have ridden,” said he, “it seems that another is before me with news of what is happening in Assisi.”

Della Pieve answered him. “I arrived three hours ago, and I bore the news that Assisi has thrown up her gates to receive and harbour the invader. The Communal Palace is being prepared for him; it is expected that he will remain awhile in the city, making it a centre whence he can conduct such operations as he intends against such strongholds as may resist him.”

“And is Solignola to be reckoned among these?” inquired Gianpaolo bluntly, his eyes upon Count Guido.

The old Lord of Solignola met his glance calmly, his shaven hawk face inscrutable, his almost lipless mouth tight and firm. It was a face at once handsome, strong and crafty—the face of one who never would yield lightly.

“That,” he answered slowly, “is what we are assembled to determine. Have you anything to add to the information afforded us by della Pieve?”

“I have not. This gentleman has told you all that is known to me.”

“None the less your coming is most timely. Our deliberations make no progress, and we do not seem likely to agree. You, perhaps, may guide us with your counsel.”

“You see, Messer Baglioni,” put in the Lord of Barbero—a red-faced, jovial gentleman of middle-age—“our interests are different, and we are naturally governed by our interests.”

“Naturally, as you say,” agreed Baglioni with imperceptible sarcasm.

“Now we of the valley—and my friend Francesco d'Aldi, there, cannot deny it—we of the valley lie open to attack; we are defenceless; the few townships that have walls at all, have not such walls as will resist bombardment. It is a fine thing for Count Guido and the folk of Solignola itself to talk of resistance. Solignola is all but impregnable. And well-provisioned and well-garrisoned as the city is, Count Guido may, if it please him, resist long enough to enforce advantageous terms. But what in the meanwhile will be our fate down yonder? Cesare Borgia will avenge upon us the stubbornness of the capital. Therefore do we urge his Excellency—and we have in this the suffrage also of the Master of the Artificers' Guild—to follow the example of Assisi and your own Perugia” (Gianpaolo winced) “and send his ambassadors to the Duke with offers of submission.”

Gianpaolo shook his great head. “It is not the Duke's way to avenge upon dependencies the resistance of a capital. He is too guileful, believe me. Whom he subjects he conciliates. There will be no such fire and sword as you fear for your townships of the valley. Solignola's resistance—if she resist—will be visited upon Solignola alone. That much I can say from my knowledge gained in service with the Duke. Let me remind you of Faenza. What harm was suffered by the folk of the Val di Lamone? Why, none. The strongholds surrendered, and knew no violence, although Faenza herself resisted stubbornly.”

“But to little purpose,” put in Paviano—the Guild-master—sourly.

“That,” said Count Guido, “is beside the point. And Faenza had not the natural strength of Solignola.”

“Yet, ultimately,” protested Barbero, “surrender you must. You cannot resist an army of ten thousand men for ever.”

“They cannot besiege us for ever,” snapped Santafiora, the condottiero, rearing his cropped bullet-head.

Baglioni sat back in his chair, and listened to the hot debate that followed now. He was as one who has tossed down a ball into a field of players, and, having done so, watches it being flung back and forth in the course of the ensuing game.

Count Guido, too, took little part in the discussion, but listened silently, his eyes passing from speaker to speaker, his countenance a mask. Facing him his daughter was sitting forward, her elbows on the table, her chin in her cupped palms, intent upon every word that was uttered, her eyes now glowing with enthusiasm, now coldly scornful, as the argument turned for or against resistance. But it was all inconclusive, and at the end of a half-hour's wrangling they were no nearer a decision than when Gianpaolo had arrived.

It was at this stage that Count Guido turned again to the Perugian, and, profiting by a momentary silence following a vigorous plea for resistance from Santafiora, invited him to speak.

“It may be that I can help you,” said Gianpaolo slowly, “for it happens that my proposal supports neither one side nor the other of the discussion to which I have listened. My suggestion concerns a middle course; and since something of the sort seems to be needed here if you are not to spend your days in talk, perhaps your courtesy will give attention to what I have to say.”

The company stirred expectantly, and settled into an attentive silence. Panthasilea's eyes turned with the others upon the grim face of the speaker, and never left it whilst he was delivering his message.

“Sirs,” he said, “here has been talk of resistance and of surrender. Of attack, of assuming the offensive, it seems not one of you has thought.”

“To what purpose?” quoth Santafiora, scowling. “We have a bare five hundred men.”

But Baglioni imperiously waved the condottiero into silence. “Hear me out before you judge me, and do not outrun me by conclusions of your own. You may know—or you may not, for Italy is full of lies upon the subject—of the business in which those gallant gentlemen, who were my friends, came by their deaths in Sinigaglia—a death which I, myself, have very narrowly escaped by the infinite mercy of God.” And he crossed himself piously. “It had been planned, sirs, to take this Duke, and make an end of him. An arbalister was to have shot him as he rode into the town. But he is the fiend—the incarnate fiend. He came forewarned. Præmonitus et præmunitus. He turned the trap about, and took in it those who had plotted to take him. The rest you know.” He leaned forward, and his blood-injected eyes ran over the assembled company.

“Sirs,” he concluded in a thick, concentrated voice, “that which failed at Sinigaglia might succeed in Assisi.”

There was a stir, breaking the rapt silence in which he had been heard. He looked at them with challenge in his glance. “Needs more be said?” he asked.

“Ay,” cried Paviano, “the how and the when, the ways and the means.”

“Why that, of course. But first——” He turned to Count Guido. “Have you a mind to follow such a course; to rid Italy of this scourge at a single stroke; to save your dominions and the dominions of others from being ravished by this insatiable devourer? Destroy Cesare Borgia, and you will have destroyed the head and brain of the Pontifical forces; thus there will be an end to this conquest of the Romagna, which presently will spread into a conquest of middle Italy; for if he lives he will not rest until he is king of Tuscany. He is not easy of access, and since Sinigaglia he uses all precautions. Yet while he is resting in Assisi should be your opportunity if you have a mind to seize it.”

Count Guido sat thoughtful and frowning, whilst eagerness glowed on several faces, positive fierceness of concurrence on one or two. But one dissentient there was in old del Campo.

“It is murder you are proposing,” he said in tones of chill reproof.

“And what then? Shall a mere word set up a barrier for grown men?” demanded the fierce Baglioni.

“It would not for one woman that I know of,” said the clear boyish voice of Monna Panthasilea, and so drew upon herself, with those first words she had ventured to utter in that council, the gaze of all. There was a feverish light in her dark eyes, a feverish glow in her fair cheeks. Meeting their glances she addressed them: “What my Lord Gianpaolo has said is true. While Cesare Borgia lives there is no peace for middle Italy. And there is one thing, and one thing only that can save Solignola—the death of Cesare Borgia.”

A roar of acclamation was the answer to those words—words uttered already by Baglioni—now that they fell from her red lips. It was her beauty and her glorious womanhood that swayed them—as men ever will be swayed even against reason, against honour and against knowledge.

But old del Campo remained untouched by the subtle magnetism of sex. He rose as the acclamations died down. He turned a calm, impassive face upon Count Guido.

“My lord,” he asked, his voice ice-cold, “does this receive your countenance?”

The white face of the old Count was set and hard, as his voice was hard when, after a moment's thought, he spoke. “Upon what grounds, Messer del Campo, would you urge that it should not? for that is clearly what you would urge.”

The President of the Anziani steadily met the Count's steely glance. He bowed a thought ironically. “I am answered,” he said. He thrust back his chair, and stepped from the table. “Permit, my lord, and you, sirs, that I withdraw before you go further in a matter in which I will have no part.”

He bowed again to all, drew his furred robes about him, and proudly left the chamber in the ensuing silence, leaving a chill behind him.

Scarce had the door closed after him than Gianpaolo was on his feet, his face pale with excitement.

“Sir Count,” he cried, “that man must not leave the citadel. Our lives may hang upon it. Too many such schemes have miscarried through less than this. Cesare Borgia's spies are everywhere. They will be in Solignola now, and should del Campo utter a word of what has passed here, the Duke may hear of it to-morrow.”

There was a moment's silence. Count Guido's eyes seemed to ask Gianpaolo a question.

“There is no dungeon in your castle too deep for Messer del Campo until this thing is done,” said he; and he added almost under his breath; “Indeed, I doubt if there be any deep enough.”

The Count turned to Santanora. “See to it,” he said in a low voice, and Santanora rose and departed on his errand.

Madonna Panthasilea's face grew very white; her eyes dilated. She feared the worst for old del Campo, who had been her own and her father's faithful friend for many a year. Yet she saw the necessity for the measure, and so crushed down the womanly weakness that arose in her, and spoke no word of intercession for him.

Presently the Count solemnly addressed the company.

“Sirs,” he said, “you have plainly signified your agreement with the proposal made by Messer Gianpaolo.”

“A thought occurs to me,” put in Francesco d'Aldi, and at once he claimed their attention. He was a scholar, a patron of the arts, a man of natural shrewdness and much worldly experience, who had dwelt much in courts and for a season had been the Orator of Solignola at the Vatican. “A doubt occurs to me as to the wisdom of my Lord Baglioni's proposal as it stands.”

Angry glances, a snort or two of impatience, and a short contemptuous laugh from Baglioni, were his answers. But he fronted the disapproval calmly, and in that moment of his pause Santafiora re-entered the chamber.

“Give me your patience, sirs,” said Messer Francesco, and he almost smiled. “I do not wish to bear del Campo company in his dungeon.”

Santafiora smiled grimly as he resumed his seat. That and his silence told the company all that it could have asked the condottiero.

“Say on,” the Count bade the Lord of Aldi. “We all know your worth, Francesco.”

Messer Francesco bowed, and cleared his throat. “Messer Gianpaolo has told us what would result from the death of Cesare Borgia—enough to justify the slaying of him so far as the ultimate consequences are at issue. But we, here in Solignola, have also to consider the immediate consequences of this act; for those immediate consequences would touch ourselves.”

“Sacrifice for the State's weal is the duty of the individual,” said Gianpaolo harshly.

“Since Messer Gianpaolo proposes to seek safety for himself in Siena, it is easy for him to utter these beautiful sentiments,” said Aldi tartly.

Some laughed, Baglioni spluttered an angry oath, and Count Guido intervened to soothe him.

“Myself,” proceeded Francesco d'Aldi, “I oppose the sacrifice of the individual where it is not necessary, and in this case I hold that it is not. We are to consider that with Cesare Borgia are several condottieri who are devoted to him. Such men as Corella, Scipione, della Volpe and others would never allow his death to go unavenged. And the measure of revenge they would exact is such as no man may calmly contemplate. Solignola would cease to exist; not a town, not a hamlet would be left standing—no man, woman or child would they spare in their devastating fury. Can you envisage that, sirs?” he inquired, and was answered by gloomy looks and silence. “But I have an alternative proposal,” he continued, “which should more effectively meet our needs, and lead to the same result for us—for Solignola, Assisi and Perugia.

“It is that we take the Duke of Valentinois alive, and hold him as a hostage, threatening to hang him if we are beset. That should keep his condottieri in check, and meanwhile we send our envoys to the Pope. We offer his Holiness his son's life and liberty in exchange for our own lives and our own liberties, in exchange for a Bull of perpetual franchisement from the States of the Church; and to quicken his Holiness's penmanship we add a threat that if the Bull is not in our hands within a given term we will proceed to hang the Lord Cesare Borgia.”

“Most shrewd!” Baglioni cried, and others echoed the applause.

“But there is a difficulty,” said Francesco. “It lies in the Duke's capture.”

“Indeed, yes,” agreed Paviano gloomily.

“But surely by guile,” urged Count Guido, “he might be lured into some—some trap.”

“We should need such guile as Cesare Borgia's own,” said Santafiora.

And now for a while they talked to no purpose, and first one offered a suggestion, then another; but these suggestions were all as obvious to propose as they were impossible to execute. That a half-hour was spent, and they were no nearer a solution; some indeed were beginning to despair, when Monna Panthasilea rose slowly to her feet.

She stood at the table's end, her hands resting lightly upon the board, her tall, lithe body in its russet gown, inclining slightly forward, her bosom rising and falling, and the pallor of excitement on her face, the sparkle of excitement in her liquid eyes.

“It is most fitting,” she said slowly, her voice steady and composed, “that Solignola's future mistress should be Solignola's saviour in this hour. Thus shall I prove my right to rule here when the time comes—and please God it may lie very distant yet.”

The silence of utter amazement that followed her words was broken at length by her father.

“You, Panthasilea? What can you do?”

“What no man of you all could do. For here is a matter that may best be fought with woman's weapons.”

Against this they protested clamorously, some in horror some in anger, all excited, save only Baglioni, who cared not how the thing were done so that it was done.

She raised a hand for silence and obtained it.

“There is between the Borgia and me this matter of saving Solignola. That alone were matter enough to spur me. But there is more.” She grew deathly white and swayed a moment with closed eyes. Then, recovering herself, continued: “Pietro Varano and I were to have wed this spring. And Pietro Varano was strangled three months ago in the market-place of Pesaro by Borgia justice. That too lies between me and the Duke of Valentinois; and vengeance should give me strength in this enterprise, which must be approached by such ways as only a woman's feet may tread.”

“But the danger of it!” cried Count Guido.

“Think not of that. What danger shall I run? I am not known in Assisi, where I have not been since I was a little child I am scarce known in Solignola itself, where I have been seen but little since my return from Mantua. And I shall be careful how I show myself in Assisi. Sirs, you must not gainsay me in this. I set my hand to the task to preserve our State's independence, to save thousands of lives. As Messer Gianpaolo has said, sacrifice for the State's weal is the duty of the individual. Yet here so much can scarcely be required.”

Men muttered, and looked at her father. It was for him to speak. The Count took his head in his hands and sat in thought.

“What—what is your plan?” quoth Gianluca della Pieve thickly.

Her ready answer showed how fully already she had considered the matter. “I shall go down to Assisi, taking with me a dozen men of Santafiora's condotta, disguised as peasants and lackeys. And while Solignola defies Cesare Borgia, and so detains him in Assisi, I shall find ways to lure him into a snare, bind him hand and foot and bear him off to Siena, where Messer Gianpaolo will await me. For my purpose, Messer della Pieve, your house in Assisi will be necessary to me. You will lend it me.”

“Lend it you?” quoth he in horror. “Lend it to be a mouse-trap in which you—your matchless womanhood—shall be the cheese? Is that your meaning?”

She lowered her eyes; a crimson flush overspread her face.

“Solignola,” she replied, “is in danger of being conquered. In the valley thousands of women and little children are in danger of homelessness, of death and worse than death. Shall one woman hesitate”—and now she raised her eyes again and flashed them defiantly upon the company—“shall one woman hesitate to endure a little insult when at the price of it she can buy so much?”

It was her father who returned the answer that none other dared return. He uncovered a face that had become grey and haggard.

“She is right,” he said, and—odd argument for an Italian of the cinquecento—“it is her sacred duty to the people she was born to rule,” he informed them. “Since there offers no way by which a man's strength may prevail against Valentinois, della Pieve you will lend your house; you, Santafiora, the men that she requires.”

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

Assisi, conquered without bloodshed, all trace of conquest sedulously removed as was the way of Cesare Borgia, was settling down to its workaday aspect which the Duke's occupation had scarcely ruffled.

Though princes perish, thrones crumble in ruin, and dynasties be supplanted, citizens must eat and live and go about their business. Thus, whilst some remained in Assisi who scowled as Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, went abroad, the greater portion bared their heads and bowed their duty to the conqueror, the great captain who had made it his life's task to reconsolidate into one powerful state these petty tyrannies of the Romagna.

The half of Cesare's army was encamped in the surrounding country. The other half, under Michele da Corella, had advanced to lay siege to Solignola, which had returned a defiant answer to Cesare's envoys when these had gone to invite Count Guido to surrender.

It was a difficult place to take, and Cesare was too wise a captain to be in haste where haste must prove expensive. Assisi afforded him pleasant quarters, and was a convenient centre for the transaction of such business as he had with Florence and Siena, and so he sat down very patiently to await the result of certain operations which he had indicated to Corella.

The chief feature of these was the preparation of a mine under the walls on the southern side of the city, almost under the very citadel itself at the point where it was flanked by the hill. Between the difficulties of access to the place, and the vigilance and continual sorties of the defenders, it became apparent at the end of a week that at the present rate of operations it would take Corella a month to effect a breach. Cesare began to consider the wisdom of opening a bombardment, deterred, however, by the difficulty there would be in effectively mounting a park of artillery upon those rocky slopes.

The matter of this obstinate but futile resistance offered by Solignola, intrigued his highness of Valentinois, and he was assured that some explanation for it must exist that was not obvious. That explanation he sought on every hand, for the Sinigaglia affair had rendered him doubly wary and alert.

One fair morning in early February, on which the deeper golden of the sunlight told of approaching spring, Cesare rode down the steep borgo from the market-place, the centre of a brilliant group of horsemen—captains in steel, courtiers in silk, and, beside him, upon a snow- white mule, the handsome scarlet figure of Cardinal Remolino, the Papal legate a latere.

It was a joyous cavalcade, most of its members being as young as the young Duke himself; and gay talk and laughter leaped from them as they rode forward to visit Corella's camp under Solignola.

In the open space before the Convent of Santa Chiara their progress was arrested for a moment by a mule litter that struck across their course towards one of the streets that led to San Rufino. It was attended by two footmen, and a very elegant cavalier on a big roan horse who rode on the litter's farther side.

The Cardinal-legate was speaking to Cesare, and Cesare was allowing his eyes to stray, as do the eyes of a man not over-interested in what he is being told. They chanced to fall upon the litter, and what he saw there caught his roving glance, and held it.

The curtain had been drawn aside, and at the very moment that he looked, the cavalier was—or so it seemed to him—stooping to point him out to the lady who sat within. It was this lady's splendid beauty that now engrossed his gaze; and in that instant her eyes, large and solemn as a child's, were raised to his.

Their glances met across the little intervening space, and Cesare saw her lips part as in surprise, saw the colour perish in her cheeks, leaving them ivory white. In homage—not to the woman, but to the beauty that was hers, for like all of his race he accounted beauty the most cardinal of all the virtues—the conqueror doffed his hat, and bowed to the very withers of his horse.

The Cardinal, checked in full flow of argument, scowled at this proof of inattention, and scowled more darkly still when to reveal the full extent of it, Cesare asked him softly:

“Who is that lady, do you know?”

The prelate, who had a famous eye for feminine beauty, followed Cesare's indication promptly. But in that moment the curtain fell again, thus baffling his eager glance.

Cesare, a smile on his lips, uttered a slight sigh, and then fell very pensive, intrigued by the element of abnormality, slight as it was, that the incident had offered. He had been pointed out to her, and at sight of him she had turned pale. What was the reason? He could not recollect that he had ever seen her before; and had he seen her, hers was not a face he had forgot. Why, then, did the sight of him affect her in so odd a manner? Men enough had turned pale before him, ay, and women too. But there had ever been a reason. What was the reason here?

The litter and its attendants vanished into the by-street. But still Cesare was not done with it. He turned in his saddle to an Assisian gentleman who rode behind.

“Did you mark the cavalier who accompanied that litter?” quoth he, and added the question: “Is he of Assisi?”

“Why, yes, Excellency,” was the answer. “That is Messer Gianluca della Pieve.”

“Della Pieve?” said Cesare, thoughtful. “That is the member of the council who was absent when the oath was taken. Ha! We should have more knowledge of this gentleman and his motives for that absence. He rose in his stirrups as his horse moved forward, and called over the heads of some others: “Scipione!”

One of the steel captains pushed forward instantly to his side.

“You saw the litter and the cavalier,” said Cesare. “He is Messer Gianluca della Pieve. You will follow them, and bring me word where the lady resides, and at the same time you will bring me Messer della Pieve. Let him await my return at the Palace. Should it be necessary you will use constraint. But bring him. Away with you. Forward, sirs.”

Baldassare Scipione backed away, wheeled his charger, and departed in discreet pursuit of the litter.

Cesare pushed on, his cavaliers about him; but he went thoughtful, still pondering that question: “Why did she turn pale?”

The reason, had he known it, might have flattered him. Madonna Panthasilea had come to Assisi to destroy by guile one whom she had never heard described save as an odious monster, the devastator of all Italy. She had looked to see some horror of a man, malformed, prematurely aged and ravaged by disease and the wrath of Heaven. Instead she found a youthful cavalier, resplendent of raiment, superb of shape, and beautiful of countenance beyond all men that she had ever seen. The glory of his eyes when she had found them full upon her own, seeming to grope into her very soul, had turned her faint and dizzy. Nor did she recover until the curtain fell again, and she remembered that however noble and gallant his presence, he was the enemy of her race, the man whose destruction it was her high mission to encompass as she stood pledged.

Reclining in her litter as it moved forward, she half closed her eyes, and smiled to herself as she remembered how avid had been his gaze. It was well.

The litter curtain was slightly lifted from without. “Madonna, we are being followed,” murmured Gianluca.

Her smile grew broader, more content. The affair was speeding as it should. She said so to her cavalier.

Her smile and her words caused an anger to flare out in Gianluca—an anger that for a moment had manifested itself that night when first she had committed herself to this task, and had been smouldering since.

“Madonna,” he cried in a voice that was hoarse, “this is a Delilah's work to which you are committed.”

She stared at him, and paled a little to hear this brutally true description of the task; then she took refuge in haughtiness.

“You are presumptuous, sir,” she told him, and so lashed him with that answer that he lost his head.

“Presumptuous enough to love you, madonna,” he replied, almost fiercely, yet muttering, that her attendants should not overhear him. “That is why I abhor to see you wedded to a task so infamous; making a lure of your matchless beauty, a base——”

“Stop!” she commanded him, so sternly that he obeyed her despite himself.

She paused a moment as one who chooses words, nor looked at him again after that first imperious glance.

“You are singularly daring,” she said, and her voice was pitiless. “We will forget what you have said, Messer Gianluca—all of it. As long as I am in Assisi I must continue under your roof, since my mission demands it. But I trust, sir, that you will relieve me of your attendance, thus sparing me the memory of your offence, and yourself the sight of one whom you condemn so harshly.”

“Madonna,” he cried, “forgive me. I meant not as you think.”

“Messer della Pieve,” she answered, with a little, cruel laugh of scorn, “to be frank, I care not greatly what you meant. But I beg that you will respect my wishes.”

“Depend upon it that I will, madonna,” he answered bitterly, “and suffer me to take my leave of you.”

He let the curtain fall, and even as he did so the litter came to a halt before the portals of his house-one of the handsomest palaces in Assisi, standing by the Duomo of San Rufino.

With a white, sullen face he watched her alight, leaning upon the arm of a footman who had hastened to discharge the pleasant duty that usually was Giunluca's own; then he doffed his hat, bowed frigidly, and wheeling his horse, he rode slowly away, nursing his sorely lacerated pride, which the young Assisian mistook for injured love, just as he had mistaken for love the ambition which had caused him to lift his eyes to the future high and mighty Countess of Solignola.

It was, therefore, a very short-tempered young gentleman who found himself suddenly confronted and hailed by a tall warlike fellow on a tall horse. Messer Gianluca scowled at Cesare's captain.

“I do not know you, sir,” said he.

“That misfortune I am here to amend,” said the bland Scipnioe.

“I do not seek your acquaintance,” said Gianluca still more rudely.

“You shall have it, none the less. For I have orders to force it upon you if necessary.”

Now these were ugly words to one whose conscience was not clear of treason. Della Pieve's dark mood was elbowed aside by fear.

“Is this an arrest?” he asked.

Scipione laughed. “Why, no,” said he. “I am sent to escort you; that is all.”

“And whither, sir?”

“Now here's a catechism! To the Communal Palace, to repair your omission to wait upon his Highness of Valentinois.”

Gianluca looked into the other's rugged face, and observed that it was friendly; he took courage, and made no more demur. And as they rode, he sought to draw information from Scipione, but finding the captain as close as an oyster, and mistrusting this closeness, he grew afraid again.

At the Communal Palace matters were no better. He was left to cool his heels in an antechamber for two hours and more, to await the return of the Duke, who was abroad. It was in vain that he begged to be allowed to depart, vowing that he would return anon. He was desired, for only answer, to be patient; and so the conviction was forced upon him that in some sort he was a prisoner. He remembered Baglioni's words, that the Duke had spies everywhere, and he began to fear the worst. So engrossed was he with these fears that all thought of Panthasilea faded utterly from his mind—that lesser matter being supplanted by this greater.

At length, when his torture of suspense had reached a climax, and he had begun to shiver in that chilly ante room, an usher came to inform him that the Duke awaited him. Whether it was of intent that the Duke had submitted him to this suspense, to the end that through fear his spirit might be softened as metal in the furnace, it is not possible to say. But it may well be that some such purpose this crafty Duke had sought to serve, desiring as he did to ascertain precisely what was the attitude towards himself of this puissant gentleman of Assisi who had failed to come with his brother Anziani to take the oath of allegiance. Certain it is that della Pieve was a very subdued and morally weakened young man when at length he was admitted to Cesare Borgia's presence.

He was ushered into the gloomy hall of the palace, which was lighted by windows set high in the wall, and decorated by a multitude of rampant lions—the Assisian emblem—frescoed in red upon a yellow ground, unpleasantly bewildering to the eye. The place was chill, for all that a wood fire was burning in the vast fireplace. About this stood a group of Cesare's captains and courtiers, talking and laughing, when Gianluca was admitted. His advent, however, was followed by a general and somewhat disconcerting silence, and he became the object of a no less disconcerting attention on the part of those same gentlemen, whilst here he caught a smile, and there a shrug, all serving to heighten his uneasiness.

He gained the middle of the chamber, and hung there pausing awkwardly for a moment. Then from the group the Duke's tall figure detached itself. His highness was all in black, but his doublet was embroidered in arabesques of gold thread, so finely wrought that at the little distance separating them, Gianluca thought him to be wearing damascened body-armour.

Cesare advanced, his pale young face very set and grave, fingers toying with his tawny beard, eyes sad and thoughtful.

“1 have waited a week to give you welcome, Messer della Pieve,” said he coldly. “As I seemed in danger of having to forgo the honour, I was constrained to send for you.” And he paused, as if awaiting an explanation.

But della Pieve had nothing to say. His mind seemed benumbed under the Duke's steady glance, under the eyes of all those gentlemen at the room's end.

It was Cesare's aim to determine whether della Pieve's recusancy was that of active or of passive enmity. If passive, the man might go his ways; but if active, Cesare must know more of it. And meanwhile he had been gathering information.

He had ascertained that Gianluca della Pieve had quitted Assisi on the eve of his own arrival, and had returned upon the morrow of that event, bringing with him a very beautiful lady, a kinswoman of his, it was put about. That lady was lodged in his palace, and was shown a great deference by her attendants.

Such was the sum of Cesare's information. Slight in itself; most certainly too slight to have aroused the least suspicion against della Pieve, had he but come to take the oath. Viewed, however, in the light of that recusancy and in conjunction with the sudden pallor of the beauty in the litter at sight of Cesare, his Highness judged that there was matter to be probed. And now he had della Pieve's confused and guilty bearing to confirm him in that judgment.

As the Assisian offered no explanation, Cesare passed to questions.

“Although you are one of the first citizens of Assisi, you were not among the Anziani when the oath was taken on Sunday last,” he said. “I shall rejoice to hear your motives for that absence.”

“I—I was not in Assisi at the time, Magnificent,” said della Pieve.

“Ay—but dare you tell us where you were?” cried Cesare sharply—and his tone was the tone of one who questions upon matters fully known to him. “I do not wonder that you hesitate to answer,” he added after a moment's pause, and thus completed Gianluca's assurance that his movements were already known.

“My lord,” he faltered, “Count Guido was my father's friend. We owed him many favours.”

Here was knowledge gained, and upon it Cesare built rapidly.

“I am not quarrelling with your visit to Solignola,” he said slowly, and the stricken Gianluca never suspected that he, himself, had just afforded the first intimation of that same visit. “Nor yet am I quarrelling with your friendship for Count Guido. My displeasure is with the motives that led you to seek him.”

That fresh vague random shot of Cesare's went home as had done the others. Gianluca blenched. Plainly all was known.

“My lord,” he cried, “I swear before Heaven that I took no willing part in any of the measures determined at Solignola.”

So! Measures had been determined at Solignola! Cesare turned it over in his mind, recalled the fact that della Pieve had gone alone and had returned accompanied by a lady—the lady of the litter, the lady who had turned pale at the sight of him that day. Undoubtedly she was from Solignola. It remained to ascertain her identity.

“How am I to believe you?” he asked.

Della Pieve clenched his hands. “I have, of course, no means of proving what I say,” he admitted miserably.

“Indeed you have, sir. There is one proof you are overlooking.” Cesare's voice was very cold. “It is yours to use frankness with me now, and so convince me of your honesty. Yet you are careful to tell me nothing.” His eyes narrowed, and again in that tone of one who is possessed of the fullest knowledge: ”Not even,” he added, “in the matter of this lady whom you fetched from Solignola with you on your return.”

The Assisian recoiled as if he had been struck, unable to follow the simple method of inference by which Cesare had arrived at the conclusion that the lady was from Solignola, never dreaming that the Duke was but groping for information, and assured that the identity of Panthasilea must be known to this man with as many eyes as Argus.

He took refuge at the last in falsehood, touching the motives of his visit to Count Guido's stronghold. “Magnificent,” he began by way of preface, “since you know so much you will understand the rest.”

“My present aim,” said Cesare, “is to test your honesty.”

Gianluca plunged headlong into the falsehoods he contemplated, praying Heaven that Cesare's information might be sufficiently limited to admit of his being believed.

“Why, is it not natural, Excellency, that being determined upon this resistance, Count Guido should have desired to place his daughter in safety—to remove her from the perils and discomforts of a place besieged? In my having given her the shelter of my house, is there anything that reflects upon my honesty towards your highness? I have said that my father owed great favours to Count Guido. Could I, then, do less than I have done?”

Cesare stood surveying him, his face inscrutable. So! The lady was Count Guido's daughter. That was valuable knowledge gained. But that Count Guido's daughter should have come to Assisi—into Cesare's very camp—to seek safety and shelter, was a foolish clumsy lie. Therefore there must be some other motive for her presence, which Gianluca found himself forced to withold.

Thus reasoned the Duke. And having formed his sound contusions, he shrugged and laughed scornfully. “Is this your honesty?” he asked. “Is it thus that you would prove that you are not my enemy.”

“It is the truth, my lord!”

“It is a lie, I say,” the Duke retorted, raising his voice for the first time. “I am too well informed, sir, to be hoodwinked so easily.” Then dropping back to his calm, level tones: “You abuse my patience, sir,” he said, “and you forget that there are the rack and the hoist below stairs with which I can force the truth from you if necessary.”

Gianluca's manhood rebelled at the threat. He braced himself by an effort of will, and looked the Duke boldly between the eyes, sustained by the courage of the desperate.

“Neither hoist or rack could extract another word from me,” he said. “For I have no more to tell.”

Cesare continued to ponder him in silence. He was not prone to needless or fruitless cruelty. And he fancied that having learned so much already, the rest might be discovered without resorting to the violence of the rack. For the moment, however, it was plain that della Pieve would say no more. He nodded slowly.

“You have no more to tell me, eh? An ambiguous phrase, sir. But I think I read its real meaning.”

He turned to the group about the hearth, which included the tall captain Scipione. He beckoned the condottiero to him.

“Baldassare,” said he, “take Messer della Pieve hence, and place him under arrest until I make known my pleasure. Let him be closely confined with guards you can trust to allow him to commune with none.”

It was not Cesare's intention to run the risk of Panthasilea's learning that her identity was known to him; for in that case the present gain would all be wasted, and the true aim of her presence in Assisi remain undiscovered.

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

The matter intrigued Cesare Borgia not a little. He took counsel that night with Agabito Gherardi, his shrewd, white-faced secretary; and Agabito, though by nature a mild and kindly man, had no hesitation in recommending that the torture should be employed to squeeze the last drop of truth from Messer della Pieve.

“We may come to it in the end,” said Cesare. “But the moment, I fancy, is not propitious. There was in this fellow's face this morning a look as of willingness for martyrdom, which does not augur well. I infer that he loves Count Guido's daughter, and, so, is strengthened in obstinacy. What is at the bottom of it all I cannot even guess. I swear it would baffle that crafty Florentine Secretary Machiavelli—which is as much as to say the devil himself.”

And at that same hour Monna Panthasilea degli Speranzoni was in earnest talk with one of her faithful followers from Solignola, a youth named Giovanni. Until to-night the manner of approaching her task had baffled her completely, since della Pieve had failed her in her original scheme. She had desired him to make pretence of loyalty to the Duke, and to present her as his kinswoman, Eufemia Bracci of Spoleto. But della Pieve, out of repugnance for the whole affair, had refused, and so had thwarted her.

But now that at last she had seen her man, and taken his measure as much by his brave appearance as by the very ready gallantry expressed in the obeisance to which the mere sight of her had moved him, she saw her way; and she was laying her plans for the morrow with Giovanni.

The morrow dawned fair and clear, a day that was more of April than of February. A soft wind was blowing from the south, warm and subtly fragrant, and from a cloudless, cobalt sky the sun shone genially upon the plain of Umbria, and struck fire and silver from the tumbling waters of the Tescio.

It was at the ford, almost under the very walls of Assisi, that Cesare Borgia, returning with a half-dozen gentlemen from an early morning ride to the camp under Solignola, came suddenly and unexpectedly upon Madonna Panthasilea.

She was seated upon the ground in a forlorn and dejected attitude, resting her shoulders against a grey boulder that had partly concealed her from the Duke's eyes until he was abreast of her. She was dressed in that bright russet gown in which you beheld her at her father's council; cut low in the bodice it revealed the perfection of her throat, the splendid column of her neck. Her bright hair was partly unbound, and strands of it caught the breeze and fluttered distractingly about her faintly-tinted cheeks. Her veil had fallen back and slipped down on to her shoulders.

In the meadow, at some little distance, a riderless mule was cropping the short grass.

At sight of her Cesare instantly swung himself from the saddle, and she had leisure to admire the athletic ease of the movement and the matchless grace of the man as he approached her, cap in hand, his long bronze-coloured hair gleaming in the sunlight.

At a glance he had recognised her; at a glance perceived the plight—real or pretended—in which she found herself; and, however that might be, he rejoiced in this chance to come to grips with her.

He bowed profoundly, and she found herself looking into the gentlest and most beautiful eyes that she had ever seen. The appeal to her womanhood of this very perfect manhood, this splendid youth and strength of which he was the incarnation, was instant and irresistible. A pang shot through her at the thought of her task; her first qualm beset her with that first glance of his. But it was no more than the momentary outcry of her instincts under the shock of the encounter; immediately reason's cold hand seized the reins of her will, and governed it.

“You are hurt, madonna,” he murmured, in that gentle yet richly melodious voice that was one of his greatest charms. “The mischance you have suffered is very plain to see. Permit that we assist you?”

She smiled at him, and even as she smiled her mouth assumed a painful twist and grew as quickly smooth again. “It is my ankle,” she complained, and put a hand to the injured limb.

“It must be bound,” said he, and swiftly loosed a scarf he wore about his body.

“No, no!” she cried—a cry of real alarm, as his sharp ears detected. “My women will tend it when I reach home. It is not far.”

“Believe me,” he insisted, “it should be bound at once.”

She crimsoned under his glance. She looked up piteously and very beautiful, and made the crimsoning do service for a blush of virgin modesty.

“I implore you not to pain me by insisting,” she pleaded. And he, playing his part as she played hers, lowered his eyes in submission, and shrugged his regret at such injudicious obstinacy.

She proceeded to tell him how she came in such a plight. “My mule had crossed the ford,” she said, “and was mounting the hither bank when it slipped upon those stones, came down upon its knees and threw me off.”

He looked grave concern. “Ungracious beast,” said he, “to cast off so fair a burden!” And he added: “You should not ride forth alone, madonna.”

“It is not my custom. But on such a morning, the spring I think was in my soul, and I was athirst for freedom.”

“A dangerous thirst,” said he, “the quenching of which has been the death of many. You should have considered all the Borgia soldiery a-swarm about the countryside.”

“What should I fear from them?” she asked him, bewitchingly innocent, her eyes wide. “You, yourself, are one—are you not? Must I then fear you?”

“Ah, madonna,” he cried, “'tis you fill me with fear.”

“I?” quoth she, lips parting in a half-smile.

“Fear for this same freedom which you seem to prize, and which I prize no less. What man can account himself free who has met your glance? What man can be other than a slave thereafter?”

She laughed lightly as she turned aside that thrust in the high lines. “Why, here's a courtier,” said she. “And I deemed you but a soldier.”

“I am a courtier here, madonna,” he said, bowing low before her. “Elsewhere I am the Duke.”

He watched the pretty play of feigned surprise upon her face; the simulated sudden confusion. “The Duke—you!”

“Your slave,” said he.

“My lord, I have been blind—very blind. It had been better had I been as dumb. What must you deem me?”

He looked at her, and sighed. “Life is so short! I should not find it long enough to tell you.”

She flushed again under his burning gaze; for despite suspicion and all else he found her—as all men must—very good to see; and his admiration showed clearly in his glance.

“We are forgetting my poor foot, my lord,” she reminded him. “And I detain you. Perhaps one of your gentlemen will come to my assistance.”

“Nay, in this office I will not be supplanted. But one of them shall fetch your mule.” He turned, and sharply gave an order which sent his gentlemen all spurring towards the grazing beast, “Can you rise with help?” he asked her.

“I think I could.”

He stooped, and crooked his arm. But she drew back. “Highness!” she murmured in confusion, “It were too much honour! By your leave, I will await one of your gentlemen,”

“Not one of them shall have my leave to help you,” he said, laughing, and again, insistently, he thrust his arm upon her notice.

“From such masterful ways—how can I defend myself?” said she, and taking his arm she rose painfully on her one sound foot; then lost her balance, and fell heavily against him with a little cry.

His arm flashed round her waist to steady her. Her hair lay an instant against his cheek; the sweet fragrance of her filled his brain. She murmured piteous excuses. He smiled, silent, and held her so until the mule was brought. Then, without a word, he lifted her in his arms as though she had been a child, and set her in the saddle. And the strength of him amazed her, as it had amazed many another to more hurtful purpose.

One covert but very searching glance he bestowed upon the mule's knees. As he had expected, they were smooth and glossy, and showed no slightest hurt or stain. It left him no doubt that her ankle was in like case, and with a little smile he turned and vaulted lightly into his own saddle. Then, coming beside her, he took the bridle of her mule in his right hand, and called to one of his gentlemen to protect her on the other flank.

“Thus, madonna, you will be safe,” he assured her. “And now—forward!”

They went down the short incline to the water, and splashed across the ford, and so rode forward into Assisi. As they went, the Duke talked lightly, and she responded with a ready tongue and many a sidelong glance of admiration for his person and of pleasure in the flattering homage of his words, which was not wholly feigned. As they were entering the town, he asked her whither did she desire them to conduct her.

“To the house of my kinsman, Messer Gianluca della Pieve, by San Rufino.”

Her kinsman! Here, considered Cesare, was more deception. How did she propose to call herself, he wondered; and bluntly asked her.

Her reply came readily. “I am Eufemia Bracci of Spoleto, your highness's devoted subject.”

He made no answer to Eufemia Bracci of Spoleto. But he smiled fondly upon her, such a sweet, guileless smile as assured her that Gianpaolo Baglioni had by much overrated his acuteness.

At the door of della Pieve's house he took his leave of her. And at the last moment, and purely out of malice, he promised to send his own physician Torella to attend her; and he dissembled his amusement and his perception of the sudden fear that leaped for a moment to her eyes. She implored him not to think of it, assured him that a day's rest would mend her foot, and she was obviously relieved that he took her word for this, and did not insist.

He rode away bemused, and once back at the Communale he sent for Agabito Gherardi and told him what had passed.

“And so, Agabito,” he concluded, “the Lady Panthasilea degli Speranzoni is here in Assisi, calling herself Eufemia Bracci of Spoleto, the kinswoman of della Pieve. She has thrust herself upon my notice, and sought to enlist my interest and ensnare my senses. Can you read me this riddle?”

Agabito's round white face was contemptuously placid. “It is extremely simple,” said he. “She is the bait in a trap that has been set for you.”

“That, Agabito, is what I have been telling you. What I desire to know is the nature of the trap itself. Can you hazard me a guess?”

“The matter is too serious for guessing,” replied the secretary, unmoved. “If I might venture to advise you. Highness, it is that you go armed abroad and with all precaution, and that you do not adventure yourself within the doors of the Palazzo Pieve save with an ample escort.”

Cesare opened his black doublet to show Agabito the gleam of the steel mesh he wore beneath. “Armed I am,” said he. “But for the rest of your advice——” he shrugged. “There is a way of handling these traps so that they close upon those who set them. There was such a trap prepared for a man in Sinigaglia, not so long ago. But you know that story.”

“In that case, my lord, you had precise knowledge of what was intended.”

Cesare looked at the other, smiling cruelly. “Knowledge which the torture wrung from Messer Ramiro de Lorqua,” he said. “Bid them prepare a hoist in the hall below, to-night; and let the executioner and his assistants be summoned to await my pleasure.”

Agabito departed, and the Duke turned his mind to other matters. That evening he sat late at supper with his gentlemen, and when he dismissed them it was to closet himself with Agabito and his clerks and keep them at work upon despatches for Rome and Florence until far into the night.

Towards midnight he turned to Agabito to inquire had all been made ready for the examination of della Pieve; and then, even as the secretary was answering him, the door was opened and a servant entered quickly.

“What now?” demanded Cesare, frowning.

“Soldiers from the camp under Solignola, Magnificent, with a prisoner.”

He raised his brows, surprised. “Admit them,” he said. And a youth in peasant garb and cross-gartered leggings, his hands pinioned behind him, was led in between two men-at-arms. With them came a young officer of Corella's, whom Cesare instantly addressed.

“What is this?”

The officer saluted. “We took this man, Magnificent, less than an hour ago, upon the slopes under Solignola. He had eluded our sentries and was through our lines, and but that in the dark he loosed a boulder, and so drew our attention, he had gained the city. We found him to be the bearer of a letter written in cipher. But Don Michele was unable to induce him to say whence this letter or for whom.”

He handed Cesare a small square of paper the seal of which had already been broken. The Duke took it, ran his eye over the array of baffling ciphers, examined the seal, and finally bore the paper to his nose and sniffed it. Very faintly he caught a fragrance that reminded him of a woman in a bright russet gown; just such a fragrance had he inhaled that morning during those brief moments in which she had lain in simulated helplessness against his breast.

He advanced towards the travestied messenger, his solemn eyes upon the man's calm intrepid face.

“At what hour,” he asked quietly, “did Madonna Panthasilea degli Speranzoni despatch you with this letter?”

The man's countenance changed upon the instant. Its calm was swept away by a consternation amounting to fear. He recoiled a step, and stared wide-eyed at this Duke, who watched him with such awful impassiveness.

“Men speak the truth of you!” he cried at last, carried away by his excited feelings.

“Rarely, my friend—believe me, very rarely.” And the Duke smiled wistfully. “But what have you heard?”

“That you have made a compact with the devil.”

Cesare nodded. “It is as true as most things that are said of me. Take him away,” he bade the officer. “Let him be confined in strictest solitude.” Then to the youth: “You have nothing to fear,” he said. “You shall come by no harm, and your detention shall not exceed a week at most.”

The youth was led out in tears—tears for the mistress whom he served, persuaded that from this terrific Duke nothing was concealed.

Cesare tossed the note to Agabito. “Transcribe it for me,” he said shortly.

“It is in cipher,” said Agabito, bewildered at the order.

“But the key has been obligingly supplied. The last word is composed of eleven numerals, and of these the second, sixth and last are the same. Assume that word to be 'Panthasilea.' It will simplify your task.”

Agabito said no more, but bent, quill in hand, over the letter, whilst Cesare—a long scarlet figure in a furred robe that descended to his ankles—thoughtfully paced the chamber.

Soon the secretary rose, and handed Cesare the transcription.

“I engaged his attention at last this morning, and l have made an excellent beginning. Within a few days now I count upon an opportunity to carry out the business. I am prepared. But I shall proceed slowly, risking nothing by precipitancy.—Panthasilea.

Cesare read, and held the paper in a candle flame, reducing it to ashes. “It tells no more than we already knew. But that much it confirms. Mend the seal of the original, and let means be found to convey it to Count Guido. Let one of my men replace the original messenger, then let him pretend that he is wounded, and so induce some rustic with a promise of good payment from Count Guido to bear the letter to Solignola.

“And let Corella be advised that he is to see to it that he captures no more messengers at present. Thus he will find it easier to complete the mine; for as long as the folk of Solignola depend upon my defeat here in Assisi and believe it to be progressing, they are not likely to be as vigilant as if they had but their own efforts to depend upon. And now for Messer della Pieve. Let him be sent for.”

The Assisian gentleman had been confined in no dungeon. He was comfortably lodged in one of the chambers of the palace; his bed and board were such as befitted a gentleman of his station; and his gaolers used him with all deference. Therefore it is no matter for marvel that he slept soundly on the night in question.

From that sleep he was rudely roused to find four men-at-arms in his chamber, looking grim and fantastic in the light of the single smoky torch that was held aloft by one of them.

“You are to come with us,” said the man whose heavy hand still rested upon Gianluca's shoulder.

Della Pieve sat up in alarm, blinking but wide-awake, his heart beating tumultuously.

“What is it?” he demanded in a quavering voice. “Whither must I go?”

“With us, sir,” was all the answer he received—the man who answered him obeying to the letter the orders he had received.

The poor gentleman looked fearfully from one to another of those bearded faces, gloomy and mysterious in the shadows of their steel morions. Then, resigning himself, he flung back the covers, and stepped from the bed.

A soldier cast a mantle over his shoulders, and said: “Come.”

“But my clothes? Am I not to dress?”

“There is not the need, sir. Come.”

Frozen now with fear, assured that his last hour had struck, Gianluca permitted them to conduct him barefoot as he was along chill passages, down a dark staircase and into the very hall where yesterday he had been given audience by the Duke.

Into this was he now ushered, and so into a scene that Cesare had carefully prepared with the object of torturing the man's soul—a merciful object, after all, since thus he hoped to avoid the maiming of his body.

Ranged against the wall, midway up the chamber, stood a table draped in black. At this sat the black figure of the questioner, gowned and cowled like a monk. He was flanked by a clerk on either hand, and before each of these were paper, ink-horns and quills. On the table stood two candle-branches, each bearing a half-dozen candles. There was no other light in that great vaulted chamber, so that the greater portion of it remained mysteriously in shadow.

On the hearth at the room's far end stood an iron tripod supporting a brazier in which the charcoal was glowing brightly. Thrust into the heart of this fire Gianluca observed with a shudder some wooden-handled implements to be heating.

Across the chamber, facing the questioner's table, grey ropes, like the filaments of some gigantic cobweb, dangled from pulleys that were scarcely visible in the upper gloom of the groined ceiling—the torture of the hoist. By these ropes stood two men in leathern vests, their muscular, hairy arms bared to the shoulder. A third man, similarly dressed, stood in the foreground making knots in a length of whipcord.

In mid-chamber—the one spot of colour in all that hideous greyness—stood Cesare Borgia in his long scarlet gown, thumbs hooked into his silken girdle, a scarlet cap upon his head. His eyes were infinitely sad and wistful as they rested now upon Gianluca.

The young Assisian stood there and looked about him in dread fascination. He knew now to what purpose he had been awakened and dragged from his bed. He fought for air a moment; the beating of his heart was stifling him. He reeled, and was steadied by the leathern-clad arm of one of the soldiers.

No word had been spoken, and the silence entered into alliance with the chill breath of the place, with the gloom and with the horror of preparations indistinctly revealed, to make the scene appear to Gianluca as some horrific nightmare. Then at a sign from Cesare, the executioner's assistants advanced, almost silent-footed, to receive the patient from the soldiers. These surrendered him and clattered out.

Gianluca was led forward to the table, and stood there between his two fearsome guards to face the questioner.

From the depths of the cowl a cold voice spoke, and to Gianluca it seemed to ring and boom through the vaulted place.

“Messer Gianluca della Pieve,” said the voice, “you are guilty of having conspired with Count Guido degli Speranzoni, Tyrant of Solignola, against the High and Mighty Lord Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois and Romagna; and of having prepared here in Assisi a pitfall for this same High and Mighty Lord. Thereby you have deserved death. But worse than death have you deserved when it is considered that his highness is Gonfalonier of Holy Church, that the battles he fights are the battles of Holy See. Therefore have you sinned not only against the Duke's Magnificence, but against God and His Earthly Vicar, our Holy Father the Pope. Yet since the Church has said: 'Nolo mortem peccatoris, sed ut magis convertatur et vivat,' his Highness in our Holy Father's name desires to spare you so that you make frank and full confession of your sin.”

The booming voice ceased; yet echoes of it still reverberated through the tortured brain of Gianluca. He stood there, swaying, feebly considering his course. He hung his head.

“Look behind you,” the voice bade him, “and behold for yourself that we do not lack the means to unseal your lips should you prove obstinate.”

But Gianluca did not look. He did not need to look. He shivered; but still said no word.

The questioner made a sign. One of the executioners whipped the cloak from Gianluca's shoulders, and left that poor gentleman standing in his shirt. He felt himself seized by strong—cruelly strong—hands. They turned him about, and dragged him across the room towards the hoist. Midway he hung back, throwing his entire weight upon their arms to check them

“No, no!” he pleaded through ashen lips.

Suddenly the Duke spoke. “Wait!” he said and, stepping forward, barred their way. He waved his hand, and the executioners fell back, leaving Gianluca alone with his Highness in mid-apartment.

“Messer della Pieve,” said Cesare gently, and he placed a hand upon the Assisian's shoulder, “consider what you do; consider what is before you. I do not think the questioner has made that clear enough. You have seen the hoist at work; you have perhaps seen it wrench a man's shoulders from their sockets.” And his steely fingers tightened about the shoulder that he held, until it seemed to Gianluca that a thousand threads of fire were coursing down his arm. He gasped in pain, and the Duke's grip at once relaxed. Cesare smiled—a smile of tender, infinite pity.

“Consider by that how little you are fitted to endure the cord. Be assured that you will speak in the end. And what do you think would follow? Your release? Indeed, no. If once the cords of the hoist have grappled you, you become the property of the law; and when the law has made you speak, it will silence you for ever. Consider that. From the agonies of a broken body your release lies through the hangman's hands. Consider that you are young—that life has much to offer you, and consider above all that your silence will profit no one, your speech betray no one that is not betrayed already—that your obstinacy will lead you to sacrifice yourself for no useful purpose.”

Gianluca's eyes looked piteously at the Duke from out of his ashen face.

“If—if I could believe that!” he murmured.

“It is easy to convince you, and in convincing you of that I shall convince you also of my own disinterestedness in seeking to save you even now.

“Learn, then, that Madonna Panthasilea degli Speranzoni has already spread her net for me; that to-day she thrust herself upon my notice; that to night she sent a letter to her father informing him of this good beginning and that within a week she looks to accomplish her treacherous work and take me in her toils.

“Knowing so much already, am I likely to fall a victim to this thing they plan? Can anything that you may add be of so much moment that you should suffer torture and death sooner than reveal it?”

Gianluca shivered. “What do you desire to know?” he asked. “What can I add? You seem already to know all—more even than do I. Or is it,” he added in sudden apprehension, “that you seek my evidence to use it against this lady?”

“Already have I all the evidence I need, were such my aim. There is the letter which she wrote her father. That alone would doom her did I desire it. No, no. All that I seek to learn from you is the precise nature of this trap that has been prepared. You will see that in telling me that you can no longer do any hurt to Count Guido or his daughter.”

“Why—if that is all——”

“That is all,” said Cesare. “A little thing. And there stands the horrible alternative awaiting you. Could I be more generous? Speak, and you may return to bed; I shall hold you a prisoner for caution's sake until Solignola falls. Then you may go your ways in perfect freedom. I pledge you my word for that. Be silent, and——” He waved a hand to the grey cords of the hoist, and shrugged.

That was the end of della Pieve's silence. He saw clearly that no purpose could be served by persisting in it; that he would but sacrifice himself in vain—and this for a woman who had deemed his love presumptuous and had used him with so little mercy. So he told the Duke the little thing his Highness sought to know—that his abduction was the purpose of the conspiracy, the aim for which Madonna Panthasilea was in Assisi.

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

Towards noon upon the morrow a very dainty page in the Duke's livery came to della Pieve's house bearing a scented letter in Cesare's own hand, wherein his Highness like the humblest suitor, craved permission to come in person and receive news of Monna Eufemia Bracci.

Panthasilea's eyes sparkled as she read. Her plans were speeding marvellously. Fortune for once was arrayed against this Cesare Borgia whose proverbial luck had caused him to be dubbed Filius Fortunæ.

The permission his Highness sought she very readily accorded, and so it fell out that the Borgia came in person some few hours later. Leaving his splendid cavalcade to await him in the little square, he went alone into her house.

He came magnificently arrayed, as a suitor should. His doublet was of cloth of gold; milk-white one silken hose, sky-blue the other, and the girdle and carriages of his sword were ablaze with jewels worth many a principality.

He found her in a chamber whose window doors opened upon the topmost of the garden's several terraces, and it was a room that was a worthy setting for so rare a gem. Eastern carpets were spread upon the mosaic floor, rich tapestries arrayed the walls; books and a lute stood upon an ebony table that was inlaid with ivory figures. By the fireplace two of her women were at work upon the embroidering of an altar-cloth, whilst madonna, herself, reclined upon a low couch of Eastern pattern. A subtle fragrance hung upon the air-the bitter-sweet of lilac essences, a trace of which he had yesternight detected in the intercepted letter.

Upon his entrance she made as if to rise; but in that he checked her. With sweet concern he forbade the effort, and swiftly crossed the room to stay her by force if need be; whereupon she sank back, smiling.

She was all in white, coiffed in a golden net from which a sapphire, large as a bean, hung upon her brow.

One of her women hastened to approach a low chair of antique design, whose feet, carved in the form of the lion's paw, were of solid silver. He sat, and solicitously inquired how fared madonna's ankle, to receive her assurance that by to-morrow it should bear her weight again.

Their interview was brief, perforce, and flavoured by hints from him of the deep regard he had conceived for her; it was confined to pretty play of courtly speeches, a game of fence at which Madonna Eufemia Bracci of Spoleto showed herself no novice.

And yet, tightly strung to her task though she was, she feasted her eyes upon the rare grace and beauty of his resplendent presence, nor repelled the dangerous rapture which his haunting eyes and soft melodious voice aroused in her.

When at length he departed, he left her very thoughtful.

On the morrow he returned, and again upon the following day; and ever did the cavalcade await him in the square below. The game began to interest him beyond all his expectations. This thrusting of his head into the lion's maw afforded him sensations such as he had never yet experienced; this hunting the hunters, this be fooling the befoolers, was no new thing to him, but never had he engaged upon it under circumstances more entertaining.

On the occasion of his third visit he found her alone, her women having been dismissed before his entrance. Wondering what fresh move in the game might this portend, he dropped upon one knee to thank her for the signal favour of it, and bore her fragrant hand to his devout lips. But her face was very grave, and for the first time she surprised him.

“My lord,” she said, “you mistake me. I have dismissed my women because I had that to say to you which you must prefer that I say without witnesses. My lord, you must visit me no more.”

For once in his life he was so astonished that he permitted his countenance to reflect his feelings. Yet she mistook for chagrin the sudden change she saw there.

“I must visit you no more, madonna!” he cried, and his accents confirmed her impression. “How have I offended? Tell me, that on my knees, here at your feet, I may atone.”

Gently she shook her head, gazing down upon him with a tender sadness. “How should you have offended, my lord? Rise, I implore you.”

“Not until I know my sin.” And his eyes were the eyes of the humblest suppliant at a shrine.

“You have not sinned, my lord. It is——” She bit her lip; a gentle colour warmed her cheek. “It is that I—I must think of my good name. Oh, have patience with me, Highness. You will make me the talk of this scandal-mongering town if daily your escort is seen awaiting you below whilst you come to visit me.”

At last he understood the fiendish subtlety at work within that lovely head. “And is that all?” he cried. “Is there no other reason—none?”

“What other reason should there be?” she murmured, eyes averted.

“Why, then, it is soon remedied. In future I will come alone.”

She pondered a moment, and gently shook her head. “Best not, my lord. Indeed, that were worse. You would be seen to enter. And coming thus—oh, what would folks not say?”

He sprang up, and boldly put an arm about her. She suffered it, but he felt the shudder that ran through her. “Does it matter—what they say?” quoth he.

“Not—not to you, my lord. But me—consider me. What is a maid's fair name once it is blown upon by scandal?”

“There—there is a back way—by your garden. Thus none would see me. Give me the key, Eufemia.”

Under lowered lids he watched her face, saw what he looked for, and released her. Inwardly he smiled. He was the very prince of amorous boobies, of love-lorn fools—the most obliging numskull that ever dashed into a trap prepared for him. So was she thinking, not a doubt, in a mental glow at the subtleties of her poor strategy.

She stood trembling before him. “My lord, I—I—dare not.”

So much fencing began to nauseate him; the daring of it amounted to folly and moved him to some contempt. He grew cold upon the instant.

“So be it, then,” said he. “I will not come again.”

He reduced her now to terror. He saw the quick alarm that leapt to her dark eyes. He admired her swift recovery of a situation that was slipping from her grasp.

“My lord, you are angry with me.” She hid her face on his shoulder. “You shall have the key,” she murmured.

He departed with it, persuaded that she was the most callous, heartless traitress that had ever drawn the breath of life. He might have thought differently had he seen her as she sat there after his departure, weeping bitterly and reviling herself most cruelly. And yet that night she wrote to her father to tell him that all was speeding excellently, and that the end was near.

And Solignola, lulled more and more by these messages and by the desultory manner in which the siege was being conducted, kept but indifferent watch. They heard at times the blows of picks under the southern wall of the citadel, and they knew that Corella's men were at work there. But they no longer sallied to disperse them, deeming it but an idle waste of life now that another and more effective method of checkmate was all but in their grasp.

The following afternoon was well advanced when Cesare Borgia tapped upon the window doors of the room in which it was Panthasilea's custom to receive him. He found her alone; and there was some confusion in her manner of receiving him now that he came in secret, as a lover avowed. But he was that day the very incarnation of discretion.

They talked of many things that afternoon, and presently their talk drifting by the way of the verse of Aquilano to the writings of Sperulo, who had followed Cesare's banner as a soldier, the Duke fell into reminiscences. He spoke of himself for once, and of his task in Italy and his high aims; and as he talked, her erst while wonder at the difference betwixt what she found in him and what she had looked for, arose again. He was, she had been told, a man compounded of craft and ambition; harsh, unscrupulous, terrible to foe and friend alike; a man devoid of heart, and therefore pitiless. She found him so gentle, courtly, and joyous, and of so rare a sweetness of thought and speech that she was forced to ask herself, might not envy of his great achievements and his strength be the true source of the hatred in which he was held by those upon whom he warred.

A tall-necked Venetian flagon of sweet Puglia wine stood that afternoon upon the table, having been left there by her women; and, moved by an impulse she could scarce explain, she poured a cup for him when towards dusk he rose to take his leave. He came to stand beside her by the table whilst she brimmed the goblet, and when she would have filled another for herself, he covered the vessel with his hands.

It was as if some of the passion latent in him, at which, as if despite him, his ardent glance had hinted none too seldom, leaped of a sudden forth.

“Nay, nay,” said he, his great eyes full upon her, their glance seeming to envelop her, and hold her as in a spell. “One cup for us twain, I do beseech you, lady, unworthy though I be. Pledge me, and leave on the wine the fragrance of your lips ere I pledge you in my turn. And if I reel not hence ecstatically, divinely drunk, why, then I am a clod of earth.”

She demurred a little, but his will made sport with hers as does the breeze in autumn with the leaf; and he watched her the while for all the hot passion that seemed to film his eyes. For he was acquainted with drugged wines, and such pretty artifices, and had no fancy for unnecessary risks in this game that he was playing.

But this wine was innocent. She drank, and handed him the cup. He bent his knee to receive it, and drained it, kneeling, his eyes upon her face.

Thereafter he took his leave of her, and she stood at the window looking after his departing figure as it descended the garden and was merged at last into the thickening gloom. Then she shivered, a sob broke from her quivering lips, and she sank limp into a chair, again as yesterday to fall a-weeping for no reason in the world that was apparent.

And again that night she wrote to the Count, her father, that all was going better than she could have dared to hope, and that within three days she looked to place in the hands of those who waited that which should enable them to purchase the emancipation of Solignola.

He came again upon the morrow, and upon the morrow of that again; and now Count Guido's daughter entered upon a season of sore experiences. In Cesare's absence she ripened her plans for his ultimate capture; in his presence she was all numb, fascinated by him, filled with horror and self-loathing at her task, the very creature of his will.

At last was reached that fateful evening that had been settled for the Judas deed. He came at nightfall, as she had begged him—urging her request as an added precaution against scandal—and he found her awaiting him in the gloom, no other light in the chamber save that of the logs that blazed upon the hearth. He took her hand and bore it to his lips. It was ice-cold and trembled in the clasp of his as trembled all her body now. He scanned her face and saw that it was drawn, for all that its pallor was dissembled by the ruddy firelight. He saw that she could not bear his gaze, and so concluded—as already he had suspected—that the snare was to be sprung to-night.

“Eufemia!” he cried. “My Eufemia, how cold you are!”

She shivered at the endearment, at the soft caress of his voice, the pleading ardour of his eyes. “It—it is very chill,” she faltered. “The wind is in the north.”

He turned from her and crossed again to the windows, her glance following him. He drew the heavy curtains close, and shut out what little daylight yet lingered in the sky.

“So,” he said, “it will be more snug within.”

He was dressed from head to foot in the warm red-brown of leaves in autumn; and as he stood there against the dark background of the curtains, the red light of the logs, playing over the smooth velvet of his doublet and the shimmering silk of his hose, turned him into a man of flame; and of shifting liquid fire seemed the girdle of gold scales that clasped his waist.

Tall, majestic, and magnificently lithe and graceful, he seemed to her now the very embodiment of perfect manhood. More than man he seemed in the fantastic, ardent panoply he borrowed from the firelight.

He moved, and fire glowed and shot, quivered, vanished and gleamed again along his scaly girdle. He took her hands and drew her down beside him on the Eastern settle, out of the firelight's direct range, yet so that her face remained illumined.

She submitted despite herself. All her instincts cried out against this dangerous propinquity, thus in the flame-lit gloom.

“I—I will call for lights,” she faltered, but made no attempt to rise or to disengage the hand he held.

“Let be,” he answered gently. “There is light enough, and I have not long to stay.”

“Ah? “she breathed the question and felt her heart-beats quickening.

“But a moment; and I am more grieved since it is my last evening here with you.”

He noted the guilty start, the sudden spasm of fear that rippled across her face, the quivering half-stifled voice in which she asked: “But why?”

“I am the slave of harsh necessity,” he explained. “Work awaits me. To-morrow at dawn we deliver the final assault which is to carry Solignola.”

Here was news for her. It seemed that not an hour too soon had she resolved to act.

“You—are certain that it will be final?” she questioned, intrigued by his assurance, eager to know more.

He smiled with confidence. “You shall judge,” said he. “There is a weakness in the walls to the south under the hill, spied out from the commencement by Corella. Since then we have spent the time in mining at that spot; and there has been during these last days an odd lack of vigilance on the part of Count Guido's followers. Solignola seems as a town lulled by some false hope. This has served us well. Our preparations are complete. At dawn we fire the mine, and enter through the breach.”

“So that I shall see you no more,” said she, feeling that something she must say. And then, whether urged by make-believe or by sheer femininity, she continued: “Will you ever think again, I wonder, when you pass on to further conquests, of poor Eufemia Bracci and her loneliness in Spoleto?”

He leaned towards her, his head thrust forward; and his eyes, glowing in the half-light, looked deeply into hers, so deeply that she grew afraid, thinking he must see the truth in the very soul of her. Then he rose, and moved away a step or two until he stood in the full glow of the fire, one velvet-shod foot on the andiron. Outside the window he had heard the gravel crunch. Someone was moving there. Her men, no doubt.

He stood awhile like a man deep in thought, and she watched him with something in her face that he would have found baffling had he seen it. Her right hand was playing fretfully about her throat and heaving bosom, betraying by its piteous movements the stifling feeling that oppressed her.

Suddenly he turned to her. “Shall I come back to you, my Eufemia?” he asked in a hushed but very ardent voice. “Would you have it so?” And he flung out his arms to her.

Her glance upraised met his own, and her senses reeled under those imperious eyes instinct with a passion that seemed to enwrap her as in a mesh of fire. Suddenly she began to weep.

“My lord, my dear lord!” she sobbed.

She rose slowly, and stood there swaying, a poor, broken thing whelmed by a sudden longing for the shelter of those outstretched arms, yet horribly afraid, with a mysterious fear, and filled too with self-loathing for the treachery she had plotted. Once it had seemed to her that she did a noble and a glorious thing. Now of a sudden, in the very hour of accomplishment, she saw it vile beyond all vileness.

“Eufemia, come!” he bade her.

“Ah, no, no,” she cried, and hid her burning face in her trembling hands.

He advanced, and touched her. “Eufemia!” The appeal in his voice was a seduction irresistible.

“Say—say that you love me,” she pleaded piteously, urged to demand it by her last remaining shred of self-respect—for in all their communion hitherto not one word of love had he included in the homage he had paid her.

He laughed softly. “That is a bombardment with which any clown may win a citadel,” said he. “I ask a free surrender.”

His arms went round her as she fell sobbing on his breast, willing and unwilling, between gladness and terror. She was crushed against him; his lips were scorching hers. Her sobs were stifled. If to her eyes he had seemed a thing of flame a moment since, to her senses now he was live fire—a fire that seared its way through every vein and nerve of her, leaving ecstatic torture in its wake.

Thus they clung; and the leaping firelight made one single and gigantic shadow of them upon wall and ceiling.

Then he gently disengaged the arms that had locked themselves about his neck, and gently put her from him.

“And now, farewell,” he said. “I leave my soul with you. My body must elsewhere.”

At that, remembering her men who waited in the garden, her terror rose about her like a flood. She clutched his breast. “No, no!” she cried hoarsely, eyes wide in horror.

“Why, what is this?” he protested, smiling; and so sobered her.

“My lord,” she panted, controlling herself as best she could. “Ah, not yet, my lord!”

She was mad now. She knew not what she said, nor cared. Her only aim was to keep him there—to keep him there. He must not be taken. Her men must be dismissed. She must tell him. How, she knew not; but she must confess; she must warn him, that he might save himself. So ran her thoughts in a chaotic turbulence.

“I know not when I may see you next. You ride at dawn. Cesare, give me an hour—a little hour.”

She sank down, still clutching the furred edge of his doublet. “Sit here beside me awhile. There is something—something I must say before you go.”

Obediently he sank down beside her. His left arm went round her, and again he drew her close. “Say on, sweet lady,” he murmured, “or be silent at your pleasure. Since you bid me stay, that is enough for me. I stay, though Solignola remain unconquered for to-morrow.”

But in surrendering to his clasp once more, her courage left her; it oozed away, leaving her no words in which to say the thing she longed to say. A sweet languor enthralled her as she lay against his breast.

Time sped. The logs hissed and cackled, and the play of firelight gradually diminished. The flames lessened and died down, and under a white crust of ash the timbers settled to a blood-red glow that lighted but a little space and left black shadow all about the lovers.

 

At long length, with a sigh, the young Duke gently rose, and moved into the little lighted space.

“The hour is sped—and more,” said he.

From the shadows a sigh answered his own, followed by the hiss of a quickly indrawn breath. “You must not leave me yet,” she said. “A moment—give me a moment more.”

He stooped, took up the iron, and quickened the smouldering fire, thrusting into the heart of it a half-burned log or two that had escaped consumption. Flames licked out once more; and now he could discern her huddled there, chin in palms, her face gleaming ghostly white in the surrounding gloom.

“You love me? “she cried. “Say that you love me, Cesare. You have not said it yet.”

“Does it still need words?” he asked, and she accounted that caress of his voice sufficient answer.

She hid her face in her hands and fell a-sobbing. “Oh, I am vile! Vile!”

“What are you saying, sweet?”

“It is time that you knew,” she said, with an effort at control. “A while ago you might have heard steps out yonder had you listened. There are assassins in the garden, awaiting you, brought here by my contriving.”

He did not stir, but continues to look down upon her, and in the firelight she saw that he smiled; and it flashed upon her that so great was his faith in her, he could not believe this thing she told him—conceived, perhaps, that she was jesting.

“It is true,” she cried, her hands working spasmodically. “I was sent hither to lure you into capture that you may be held as a hostage for the safety of Solignola.”

He seemed slightly to shake his head, his smile enduring still.

“All this being so, why do you tell me?”

“Why? Why?” she cried, her eyes dilating in her white face. “Do you not see? Because I love you, Cesare, and can no longer do the thing I came to do.”

Still there was no change in his demeanour, save that his smile grew sweeter and more wistful. She was prepared for horror, for anger or for loathing from him; but for nothing so terrible as this calm, fond smile. She watched it, drawing back in fascinating horror, as she would not have drawn back from his poniard had he made shift to kill her for her treachery. Sick and faint she reclined there, uttering no word.

Then, smiling still, Cesare took a taper from the over-mantel, and thrust it into the flame.

“Do not make a light!” she pleaded piteously; and, seeing that he did not heed her, she hid her scarlet face in her hands.

He held the flame of the taper to each of a cluster of candles in the branch that stood upon the table. In the mellow light he surveyed her a moment in silence—smiling still. Then he took up his cloak, and flung it about him. Without another word he stepped towards the window.

It was clear to her that he was going; going without word of reproach or comment; and the contempt of it smote her cruelly.

“Have you nothing to say?” she wailed.

“Nothing,” he answered, pausing, one hand already upon the curtains.

Under the spur of pain, under the unbearable lash of his contempt, a sudden mad revulsion stirred within her.

“The men are still there,” she reminded him, a fierce menace in her tone.

His answer seemed to shatter her wits. “So, too, are mine, Panthasilea degli Speranzoni.”

Crouching, she stared at him, and a deathly pallor slowly overspread a face that shame and anger had so lately warmed. “You knew?” she breathed.

“From the hour I met you,” answered he.

“Then—then—why——?” she faltered brokenly, leaving her sentence for his quick wit's completing.

At last he raised his voice, and it rang like stricken bronze.

“The lust of conquest,” he answered, smiling fiercely. “Should I, who have brought a dozen states to heel, fail to reduce me Count Guido's daughter? I set myself to win this duel against you and your woman's arts, and your confession, when it came, should be the admission that I was conqueror in your heart and soul as I am conqueror elsewhere.”

Then he dropped back into his habitual, level tones. “For the rest,” he said, “such was their confidence in you up there in Solignola that they relaxed their vigilance and afforded me the time I needed to prepare the mine. That purpose, too, I had to serve.”

The curtain-rings clashed, as he bared the windows.

She struggled to her feet, one hand to her brow, the other to her heart.

“And I, my lord?” she asked in a strangled voice. “What fate do you reserve for me?”

He considered her in the golden light. “Lady,” said he, “I leave you the memories of this hour.”

He unlatched the window doors, and thrust them wide. A moment he stood listening, then drew a silver whistle, and blew shrilly upon it.

Instantly the garden was astir with scurrying men who had lain ambushed. Across the terrace one came bounding towards him.

“Amedeo,” he said, “you will make prisoners what men are lurking here.”

One last glance he cast at the white crouching figure behind him, then passed into the darkness, and without haste departed.

At dawn the mine was fired, and through the breach Solignola was carried by assault, and Cesare the conqueror sat in the citadel of the Speranzoni.