
THE LIBRARY OF CLASSICAL HISTORICAL FICTION
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Welcome to unforgettable reading.
Henry Christopher Bailey (1875-1961) is a writer who honed his craft by writing historical novels before going onto much greater fame in another genre. Born in London, he was educated at the City of London School, and studied classics at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. His first book was a historical novel, My Lady of Orange, published in 1901 while he was still an undergraduate. In 1901 he joined the staff of the Daily Telegraph, where he served as drama critic, war correspondent, and lead writer until 1946. Bailey's talent, intelligence, and scholarship are all prominently displayed in his historical fiction.
A decade after he made his mark in historical fiction, he went on to a second writing career with the publication of the detective novel Call Mr. Fortune in 1919, and became one of England's greatest practitioners of detective fiction when interest in the genre was at its early peak. His style was distinctive enough to have influenced a generation of detective writers, known informally as The Bailey School.
This is a novel of intrigue, romance, poison and betrayal set in the Italy during the late 15th or early 16th century. Protagonist Lionardo de Feltre, scholar-nobleman and Vicar of the Holy Roman Empire, takes time out from his friends from the dangers that befall them as they pursue their emotions rather than their intellects. Author H.C. Bailey's credentials as an Oxford-trained classicist are on full display as his hero speaks familiarly about Herodotus, Virgil, Caesar, Pompey, and other figures from antiquity. Springtime is an entertaining, accessible look at a society that readers will recognize as the setting of some of Shakespeare's best-known plays, both comic and tragic.
There were Francisco and Beatrice clasped heart to heart, lip to lip.
H.C. Bailey
1873 Press
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The First Spring
How Lionardo Began His Journey
The Second Spring
How Lionardo Put Down Catullus
How A Son Was Born To Francesco
How Squarcia Expressed Surprise
What They Took From Castagnaro
How The Prior Went Into The Cellar
A Professor of Aristophanes, A Saw-Pit, And A Judas
The Countess of Lucrezia is Quit of The Thorns
Concerning Bernardo Bruni And A Dimple
The Strategy of Bernardo Bruni
How Ramiro Capucci Did After His Kind
Shows The Disadvantage of Being Second
How Ramiro Capucci Stole A Horse
How Ramiro Capucci Wore Red And Black
THERE is a history of Lionardo in fifteen books and five hundred and thirty-seven chapters. But that is not his fault. The next worst thing known of him is that he disliked Cicero and eels. Fra Piero, his historian, is very sad about this. But Fra Piero had prejudices. His style argues that he himself loved Cicero not wisely but too well; and eels, perhaps, in the same manner. Yet he loved Lionardo too, this smooth Franciscan, and though a biography in five hundred and thirty-seven chapters be a sad way to show love, somewhere in the mass is a phrase that earns him forgiveness, a phrase worth making and reading---this: "For our Lord Lionardo had in him the heart of the spring."
Lionardo lived in one of the world's springtimes---in days when the love of beauty and the love of knowledge were waking the world to achievement, as passion wakes a boy to manhood. And even as passion drives a man to deeds worthy Heaven or Hell, so this spirit of the world's springtime made heroes and monsters too, and some were drunk with it and mad for a while, and some fell sick of self-concern, and some loved most nobly---but all lived every moment of their lives. And now to their story.
You are to see Lionardo da Feltre, Duke of Vellano, Vicar of the Empire, in doublet and hose of sedate grey. He was tall, this Lionardo, and limber and light of foot. There was a big nose on his lean, humorous face, and plentiful red hair above. See him climbing the Lombardy foothills toward an April sunrise. High and high above him, snow-peak and sky are blent in rosy light. A pale sea of glistening green lies below, where the budding vines wed mulberry and elm. Lionardo goes upward over the pasture amid sleek, incurious kine. On the clean new air is borne the infinite murmur of the waking world.
The dawn blush faded from snow and sky. Over the mountains rose the sun, and the marshalled crests stood dazzling white. Lionardo halted at gaze, and the cold splendour took hold of his soul. Then came the need of speech, and he declaimed vigorously in Greek,--- "'O holy Heaven and ye swift-wingèd windsAnd river fountains and---'"
In the midst of the invocation a maiden rose before him. Her face was pale; brown hair hung in tumbled curls on brow and neck; her eyes were dull with the mist of sleep. She yawned and stretched herself, and beheld Lionardo.
"Oh! A good morning to you, sir." She dropped a curtsey across her bed of pine branches and its bear-skin coverlet. "Did you call me?"
"Indeed, I called on Heaven, and you answered," said Lionardo.
She looked up at the mountain's white glory, and the mist passed from her eyes; she looked over the pasture and laughed and drank deep of the fragrant air. "We are in Heaven, I think, sir."
"Already? I was always precocious," Lionardo sighed, and she stared. He looked upon round black eyes and piquant, parted lips. The dress was undone about her ivory neck. "I wonder---is Hell no more interesting?"
The round eyes grew rounder, the little lips parted wider. "Pray, sir, who are you?" said she.
"One Lionardo, a poor scholar."
"And what is a scholar?"
"I wish I knew. Then I should know what I am. But it might not be interesting after all." So Lionardo dreamily, and the girl plainly thought him less than sane. "A scholar, lady, is one who finds in knowledge the one refuge from the idle strife of human deeds."
"And what do you know, sir?"
"That I know nothing, lady."
"Oh, that must be heartening!"
"It is," said Lionardo, "a source of melancholy satisfaction."
"And do you never want to do anything?"
"In charity I refrain."
She swept a little away from him in a swift, indignant movement. "But is not the sun on the mountains and the wind all about us---and you hear the roar of the river---and the wild thyme is in the air---and," she laughed, "and when I have driven the cows to the byre there is breakfast."
"I concede," said Lionardo, "that there is something in breakfast."
But she was gone after her cows, and Lionardo watched her gloomily. Bear-skin flung on one slim shoulder, she went light over the dewy grass, crooning a song. Clearly she was glad to be alive, and Lionardo sighed for her. The cows answered her song, and gathered together and came to her, and with her arm round one sleek neck she led them back. She beheld again Lionardo's long face, and bubbled laughter: "Sir, sir, you are not dead yet! Then why should you look like it?"
Lionardo paced on solemnly beside the cow. "Perhaps I like to fancy myself at rest," said he in his deepest voice. Then the humour of the man flashed out of his grey-green eyes: "Oh, bah, but I talk like a fool! Your bubbling happiness, child, makes me feel it a duty to be sad. And I wonder if you understand that?"
"Nor want to, indeed!" she laughed. "I never want to understand."
"And I do always. That---"
A jolly, rough tenor drowned further philosophy.
"Answered Margutte: 'Well, I never boastedI don't believe in black no morethan blue,But in fat capons boiled, or mayberoasted---And I believe sometimes in puddingstoo.'"
"Here is another effervescent soul," Lionardo murmured.
There rolled down toward them a man of some bulk and weight, marvellously round. He was most neatly arrayed in sapphire velvet, with a single gold chain about his neck. His face was hidden in close, coarse, yellow-brown hair.
"Why, Bianca, do you bring a calf with your cows?" he roared.
Lionardo regarded him severely.
"'Tis a gentleman that knows he knows nothing, and wants to be dead," laughed Bianca.
"What name shall we put on the tombstone, sir?"
"If your manners remain so charming, it will be your own, sir," said Lionardo politely.
The round man laughed. "A hit for a hit," he admitted. "And now a name for a name. I am Squarcia"---he puffed out his broad chest; "you are---?"
Lionardo had bowed at the name---the name of a great condottiere, a soldier of fifty victories. "I am Lionardo, a poor scholar; alas, a very poor scholar."
Squarcia pounced on his hand. "Then I am your friend," he cried, and gripped. "I"---he puffed out his chest---"I am a scholar myself."
Lionardo bowed. "So, too, was Cæsar," he suggested politely.
"Caesar? Pooh!" Squarcia rolled on majestic, and Lionardo strove with mirth.
They had come to the verge of the pine woods and an upland inn. Its rough-hewn, brown walls stood out against the dark green of the serried trees above. On the turf in front, half a dozen stalwart fellows lay scouring armour and arms. They sprang up smartly before Squarcia and saluted, and he, lifting a finger in answer, led Lionardo in.
The little room was fragrant of pine and rosemary and thyme. There was white bread on the table and a flagon of wine. Bianca sped in with a platter of fish. Lionardo was helped bountifully.
"And why," said Squarcia, talking with his mouth full, "why are you on your travels, Messer Lionardo?"
Lionardo was eating delicately, disguising his appetite. Delicately he answered: "You must know that I have read only the latter books of Herodotus. I journey in search of a manuscript of---"
He was not allowed to continue. At the name of a classic, Squarcia boiled over. He hymned the joys of learning with a drill-sergeant's voice and fluency. "And you read Greek too!" he cried at last, in tones of awe, staring at Lionardo for some outward and visible sign of this inward and spiritual grace. "Herodotus!" He pronounced it with care and pain. "Tell me all about him!"
So all through breakfast, between bites of the fish and the wonderful omelette and draughts of the raspberry-flavoured wine, Lionardo talked of Marathon and Salamis and Themistocles's glorious lies, and the fight of those immortals who chose death at Thermopylæ.
Squarcia leaned back. Under the hair his cheeks were flushed and his little grey eyes glowing. He said nothing for a while, and Lionardo, with an apologetic air, drank up the rest of the second flagon. "Faith, that is life!" said Squarcia to himself. Then turned upon Lionardo: "And you say you want to be dead?"
"Doubtless that is life. I like to read of it. I have no sort of desire to live it."
"I doubt you have read too much and lived too little."
"Sir," quoth Lionardo, "I am one who finds in reading the one refuge from the idle strife of human deeds." He was, you observe, fond of that phrase.
"Have you ever kissed?"
"To satiety," Lionardo sighed.
"Have you ever fought?"
"I never found any one worth fighting."
Squarcia sat up. Squarcia looked him up and down. "What do you think of Pompey---Cnæus Pompeius---Pompey the Great?" he said, all in a breath.
Lionardo stared. The conversation appeared to him disorderly. "Why," he said after a while, "why, that no one was ever called 'Great' with less reason---or more sarcasm."
Squarcia smiled. "Then you are wrong as the devil," he said with satisfaction. "Look you---" he began, to Lionardo's horror, expounding campaigns fifteen centuries old. He expounded at length. Finally he took crumbs of bread and the dregs of the wine and drew plans upon the table. "So by all the laws of war Pompey had won. By all the laws of war Caesar was undone, crushed, annihilated."
"Then," said Lionardo between yawns---"then the more fool Pompey for letting him go."
Squarcia stood up. "Who calls Pompey fool, calls me fool!" he roared.
"I trust not with equal justice," murmured Lionardo.
"You unsay your words?" roared Squarcia.
"Not an article of them."
Squarcia smiled. "Then I assure you, Messer Lionardo, you have found some one worth fighting," he said genially.
"Your modesty overpowers me." Lionardo stood up, and Squarcia led the way out.
Lionardo followed, trying to wake up. Certainly it was dreamland, this inn where over breakfast you lectured antiphonally on ancient history, and concluded with a duel by way of doxology. It seemed that he was to fight about the brains of a man fifteen centuries dead. That was clearly absurd. But the world was absurd. This fight was probably as reasonable as anything else. A fight with Squarcia would perhaps provide some new sensations. If the worst---or the best?---happened, he would have found "some refuge from the idle strife of human deeds." He was weary of the world and twenty-five.
Squarcia had led him out of sight of the inn to a patch of level turf. In a moment sword and dagger rasped gleaming together. Lionardo had the longer reach by inches, but he had never found so little use in it. The sturdy round man bounded and bounced like a ball. It began to occur to Lionardo that he was fighting for his life, and he forgot that he was weary of it, and fought his best. He was out of dreamland now. Squarcia bounded in and out and laughed aloud. But Lionardo had no desire to laugh. He was reeking with sweat; he felt his arm grow weary and slow. Still Squarcia plied him with thrusts and laughed. Lionardo set his teeth and followed one of Squarcia's backward bounds. He stumbled and fell forward, and in the second of falling he seemed to feel Squarcia's dagger smash down through his spine, and lunged upward desperately---to bite even in death.
Lionardo rose, breathing hard, wild-eyed. He was all unhurt. From the ground Squarcia roared like a bull.
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LIONARDO gathered his wits. It was indeed Squarcia and not he who lay on the ground. He had outfought the great condottiere. Amid the idle strife of human deeds it was somewhat satisfactory.
But chivalry required aid to the vanquished.
Squarcia lay with one hand to his thigh, holding his wound together in scientific fashion, and roaring continuously. Lionardo knelt beside him and approached ignorant, helping hands. "Hold off!" cried Squarcia indignant. "By Pompey, you would mend it as ill as you made it!" And then Lionardo was upset from his charitable attitude by the rush of Squarcia's men. They were about to kill him, as a preliminary to surgery, when Squarcia roared out an oath: "Fools!---fools! Who made you calf butchers? Help me patch myself!"
So Lionardo was left to sprawl while they patched. Then four men bowed together to lift Squarcia's round bulk. A panting procession returned to the inn. Squarcia was propped up comfortably in the shade. "Well, Messer Lionardo," said he, "here is the devil of a business."
"Indeed, sir, I was near finding it so myself," quoth Lionardo politely.
Squarcia chuckled. "By all the rules of the sword," he said slowly, "I ought to have had you."
"It is, in fact, the case of Cæsar and Pompey over again."
Squarcia grunted. "For a man that wants to be dead, Messer Lionardo, you tried mighty hard to keep alive."
"I have never pretended to be consistent."
"I never said you were all a fool. Well, Messer Lionardo, as I was saying, this is the devil of a business. You have laid me up for weeks, and you have laid up my breeches for ever."
"I could entertain you for months, sir, with a discourse on the futility of movement."
"I would rather die other ways. But this is the devil of a business. I ought to be at Noventa, taking command of the countess's troops."
"Pray, whom is the countess going to fight?" said Lionardo with interest.
"And what is that to you?" Squarcia snapped.
"I take an interest in all folly."
"By Pompey! That is why you are so interested in yourself." Squarcia laughed loud, but he was eyeing Lionardo curiously, and mirth of a quieter, deeper kind began to flash in his little grey eyes.
"Come, Messer Lionardo, you owe me something. I have---I made you fight for your life."
"The sensation," Lionardo admitted, "had interest."
"Try another new one. Be some use. Look you, you have laid me by the heels, and I can spare no one of my men. There are too many fine fellows in Lombardy wanting to make a hole in Squarcia. Carry a letter from me to the countess."
"With good will," said Lionardo. And Squarcia cried at once for paper and pens. He wrote, and the composition appeared to amuse him. He ended with a signature of infinite twirls, folded the paper, wrapped it in white lamb's skin, bound it with a silken cord, and pressed on a mass of crimson wax his signet, a great ruby graven with a rose.
"From your hand into hers," he said, giving it to Lionardo, "on your honour, Messer Lionardo."
Lionardo bowed. "From my hand to hers," he repeated.
"Try to keep alive till then," laughed Squarcia.
"As you wish it," said Lionardo placidly.
"Then God speed! And a word more, Messer Lionardo. Play at being a scholar if you please; play at being a soldier; but do not play at being a man."
"Indeed, sir, it is no play, but dismal earnest," said Lionardo. "Since you wish it, I wish you on your legs again. I would I had the luck to be off mine."
Squarcia watched him go along the hillside in the shadow of the pines. "Well," said he to himself, "I wonder if I was right not to kill him?" and then began to laugh. He was laughing still when Bianca arrived to commiserate him.
On the third day after, Squarcia reclined upon many skins above the amber pool of the torrent and ate a preserve of nectarines. A cavalcade climbed slowly round the hill's shoulder into his view---a cavalcade of grave, reverend, and obese gentlemen and mules. They halted at sight of Squarcia, and communed together in whispers. Then one came forward. "Sir," said he after a bow, "you have been here some while?" Squarcia, whose mouth was full, held up the empty preserve jar. "Pray, sir, have you seen a gentleman pass this way?" Squarcia, emptying his mouth with evident delight, nodded. "I pray you, sir, which way did he take?"
Squarcia wiped his mouth and disposed himself for oratory. "Now which he do you want?" he asked. "There was Beppo, the goatherd. If you go to hell you will be sure of finding him. There was young Giovanni. And his mother says he is going to heaven. He will be no loss to earth. There was Niccolo, the pig-doctor, and---"
"Sir, he whom we seek was plainly a gentleman."
"There was one who was a mighty plain gentleman, with a beak of a nose and fiery hair and a look that would curdle milk."
The questioner on the mule flushed and appeared angry. "You---you---you indicate him we desire," he stuttered. "By your leave, which way did he go?"
Squarcia sat up. He looked at his questioner and then down the halting cavalcade. "What! You all desire him? Then I wish you all better taste."
"Enough, sir, I pray you---enough!" The questioner was all but choking. "You know not of whom you speak. In one word, where may we find him?"
"Nothing for nothing. Tell me who he is, and I tell you where he has gone."
"Well, sir?"
"A bargain? Good! He went that way"---Squarcia pointed shamelessly west, though Lionardo had gone full east---"that way, toward Zena. Now, who is he?"
The gentleman on the mule stiffened. "You have been speaking, sir, of his Highness, Lionardo, Duke of Vellano. Whom God preserve!"
"A duke?" cried Squarcia. "A devil!"
The gentleman on the mule signed to his cavalcade to wheel. "Permit me to say, sir, that any person of penetration would have discovered it in his bearing." The cavalcade drew off.
"By Pompey!" Squarcia chuckled; "I wonder if she will?"
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THE sun was falling. The wide, waveless sea of the Lombard plain was bathed in light. Purple and blue and black, vast mountain bastions rose afar, and their white peaks touched the northern sky. Out of the vineyards on the hillside started the towers of Noventa, crimson and russet-brown and gold, like masses of jewels in the evening glow.
Toward them, a little dusty, a little footsore, Lionardo progressed. He proposed to himself amusement---a little amusement from the Countess Lucrezia. Would she see in him something more than a mere wayfaring scholar? Would she, in fact, succumb to his charm? For the credit of the Countess Lucrezia he hoped so.
It was, perhaps, more likely that she would not; that she would be as blind as that round swashbuckler at the mountain inn. Poor wretch (Lionardo smiled in happy contempt), he had had to pay for his dulness.
And away in the mountain inn Squarcia was chuckling softly: "A duke! That boy with the vapours duke regnant! It will be the more amusing. I am certainly glad that I let him live."
Lionardo, came to Noventa, and through the bustling streets to the castle. He asked audience of the countess, and for the first time in his life he was sniffed at. His answering stare quelled the usher. He announced himself the bearer of a letter for the countess's own hand from the Most Illustrious General Squarcia. After a while he was conducted through long, cool passages, walled and paved with many-hued marbles, to a garden of fragrant white lilies.
A woman sat there in a robe of crimson silk. She was tall, it seemed, and slight, too slight for a woman; but a woman very surely. Her slim neck was marvellous white. Her golden hair shone with its own lustre. Her brow was low and broad, but beneath it her face narrowed sharply to the chin. In the dull, dark eyes, in her scarlet, parted lips, in all her form was longing and unslaked desire.
So she sat in her ivory chair, the Countess Lucrezia. It was not she but her lady standing beside her who drew Lionardo's eyes. Beatrice Traversari, black-haired, black-eyed, with face and neck of ivory, stood in a simple russet gown. She was just come to the fullness of her beauty then, tall and strong, and the glory of her form no man saw to forget. For such a woman must be the mother of heroes.
Behind them a little, lounged Francesco Giannotti, Count of Zena---a Hermes, an Apollo of swarthy flesh and blood, too lovely, perhaps, to be a man.
Lionardo bowed and bowed again. "Lady, I bear a letter from the General Squarcia, which I am sworn to put into your hand."
The countess held out a hand ("the slimmest, the whitest in Christendom," says her court poet). She began to read, and Beatrice drew away a little, and to her came the Count Francesco. The countess ended her reading and looked up. "So you are Squarcia's lieutenant," she said.
Then out of the silence of stupefaction, "I?" Lionardo gasped. "I---"
"You look the soldier," she said, eyeing him critically.
Lionardo groaned in spirit. "Indeed, you flatter me. I---"
"He says you are of proven valour." She still examined him with dispassionate, critical eyes. "I can believe it. Well, Lionardo, if I can make shift with you for servant, will you make shift with me for mistress?"
Lionardo, once again in dreamland, gave himself up to mysterious events. "I ask no better, lady."
"It is well." She gave him her hand to kiss. "With the fellow Castracane lord of Frido, we must needs be armed. You will command all my forces, Lionardo." Lionardo gasped, and gasped again. "There are five hundred of my guard, and burghers and peasants ten thousand, it may be." ("This," quoth Lionardo to himself, "is no dream, but a nightmare.") "They need your soldier's science ill enough. They are but pike-men. You shall teach them this new arm, the arquebus, that throws its darts with powder."
"Your arquebus, lady," said Lionardo in a hurry, "is a weapon too impartial. It spares not its friends. It slays your foe sometimes. It stuns you always."
"I would have you make trial," said the countess coldly, and Lionardo began to think that Squarcia's leg was to be well avenged. "This is a weapon that Squarcia uses much, I think?"
"The General Squarcia, lady," said Lionardo, with entire conviction, "is a man of original mind."
"I am sure of it. Pray, what like is he? I have heard of him much, but seen him never."
"He is, lady---spherical, and hairy as a goat. Yes," Lionardo repeated viciously, "as a goat."
She laughed. "I hope, Lionardo, I shall never have you paint my portrait."
"If I did, the truth for once would look like flattery."
"I doubt my portrait needs flattery more than truth," she said, half to herself, and sighed; and, as Lionardo was going on to another compliment, stayed him with uplifted hand: "Nay, enough of that! And what ails Squarcia? He writes only, 'I am laid here by the heels awhile---for my own sins or some one's else.'"
"Squarcia's legs, lady, are overworked. They have to carry his body. One has demanded furlough."
"I trust it may soon be healed."
"And, indeed," said Lionardo with entire earnestness, "I trust so too."
"Well, Lionardo"---she rose---"you will sup at my table to-night."
Lionardo made his bows and retreated. As he went he heard her calling across the lilies: "Beatrice!---Beatrice!" and her voice was shrill and angry.
Lionardo wandered off, shaking his head at himself. Certainly all the world was mad, and he, Lionardo, alone in it sane. A lonely and uncomfortable position. He, captain-general of ten thousand militia! He, instructor in the art of war! He who could never remember the drill of his own guard.
After all, it would be a new sensation.
But Squarcia! The round rogue! Lionardo began to feel an affection for him. There was a crazy humour in the man that appealed. To fight a duel about Pompey; to turn a vagabond scholar into the captain-general of Noventa; he must certainly be mad. But he was mad very delightfully.
And the Countess Lucrezia? Lionardo sighed for her. She had not divined the duke under the dust. She had not divined a man at all. She had seen nothing but a drill-sergeant for garlic-breathing militia, a preceptor of budding arquebusiers. The essential Lionardo---the Lionardo who was there alike, whether he called himself duke or scholar or (God help him!) soldier---that distinguished person the Countess Lucrezia had failed to see. A quite deplorable countess!
An usher arrived in a hurry to take him to his quarters. Lionardo lay in a bath of green marble and continued his meditations.
But the lady-in-waiting! What grace! what majesty! The white face, delicate and strong; the Olympian form! Lionardo stretched himself in the warm, delectable water and thought of her, and rejoiced that such a being was on earth. More particularly in Noventa.
In this way, and in this precise temper, Lionardo took service with the Countess Lucrezia.
The sound of music called him to supper. The great hall was built of white marble and vivid blue lapis-lazuli; below the gloom of the clerestory, gilded beams ran from side to side. A thousand wax candles shone upon the gold and silver and Venetian crystal. Lionardo was set next to Beatrice Traversari, and breathed his own private thanks to Heaven while the bishop said grace.
"Pray, lady," said Lionardo, "will you be Virgil to my Dante; will you tell me whom I see?" And made the speech an excuse for studying the beauties of her face.
"Why, sir, I fear you see no one but me."
"Faith, why should I look elsewhere?"
"For courtesy, sir," she said coldly; and Lionardo bowed to the rebuke. "On the left of the countess," she went on, with hardly a pause, "sits the Bishop of Lojano."
Lionardo looked up and saw a plump, dull face, a face of featureless features. "And of what nature is the bishop?"
"I have known him a dozen years, and I know nothing. Beside him is the Lady Porzia, the aunt of the countess."
"And what is her chief activity?"
"Sleep. He who is next to the Count Francesco"---(Lionardo followed her eyes, and saw a wondrous sight. It was a man in a gown of scarlet and brown fur, broidered with weird devices. About his neck hung a golden chain of the signs of the zodiac. His long beard was parted and curled on either side. His hair hung in ringlets. His eyebrows were brushed upward. All---beard, hair, and eyebrows---nature or art had made brightly golden)---that," said Beatrice, "is Agesilaus Chrusopoulos, the sage."
"I had thought him the barber," said Lionardo.
She smiled. "That, sir, is all the party, save the chamberlain, the chancellor, and their ladies. They---"
"Cannot be more insignificant than they look."
"You do not know them yet. Well, sir, that completes the tale. We have talked much of other people. Will you not talk of yourself?"
Lionardo recoiled. He was by taste economical of lies. "There is, believe me, no subject less interesting," he said hastily, and, looking round, caught the eye of the insignificant wife of the insignificant chancellor. She said something; he caught at it---a drowning man at a straw.
Supper was over. Lionardo, as he passed to the terrace, heard a thin voice behind him: "May an old man ask your arm?" and turned to see the bishop.
They walked on together slowly. "So, sir, you are Squarcia's lieutenant?" There was a measured emphasis on each word that made Lionardo look down at the bishop. But the featureless face, though the moonlight fell on it, betrayed nothing.
"Why, there is Squarcia's word for it," said Lionardo with a laugh.
They paced on. "Messer Lionardo," said the bishop, "are you an honest man?"
"Faith, I do not presume---" Lionardo was answering lightly. Then he stumbled. Was he quite an honest man now? He felt himself flushing. "I---I---I do not presume to be," he stammered.
"They are sometimes useful," said the bishop, "to the rest of us." And as they came to the door again, he gave Lionardo good-night.
Lionardo took another turn. He was passing an oleander when a dry twig in it snapped. Lionardo jumped at the bush, and out of it came the golden hair and beard of Agesilaus Chrusopoulos. "And what is your work here?" cried Lionardo.
"I hear world communing with world," said the sage in a hollow voice, waving his arm at the stars.
"Master Wizard"---Lionardo tapped him on the shoulder---"worlds dislike eavesdroppers."
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LIONARDO ungirded himself and mopped his brow and sat down plump. He had been drilling the countess's guard; to be exact, he had been allowing their lieutenant to drill them under the superintendence of his own sapient eye. Lionardo, to his own amazement, had become in a few weeks popular with the guard. He was certainly no soldier, but he was no fool, and he had eliminated from their drill many cumbrous manœuvres which dated, he surmised, from the time of Squarcia's friend Pompey, and had been useless for centuries. The militia of the city loved him too. Did he not come down to the streets at nightfall and tilt with the 'prentice lads and dance with the girls? And he was infinitely patient when they drilled, and kept his temper though they bungled.
Lionardo himself found it amazingly interesting. All this and more he might have done in his own state of Vellano. But no one in Vellano ever expected him to do anything, and naturally he had disappointed no one. Here in Noventa the thing had to be done. Amazingly interesting it was. And Beatrice Traversari was amazingly beautiful. "O broad, white brow; dark, earnest eyes!" And the royal form of her, and the stately step! A fit mother of kings---or dukes.
Lionardo took up with determination the manuscript of Julius Manutius, "De Militari Usu ," the latest treatise on the art of war. Julius Manutius (in Latin that made Lionardo shudder) expounded the use and abuse of the arquebus. The countess's arquebuses had not yet appeared. The Milan artificers were slow, and Lionardo blessed them in his prayers. For when the arquebuses did come he would be shamed. Or Squarcia might come first; and Lionardo was in no hurry for Squarcia, for when Squarcia came he would have to go---and to go without Beatrice. Ah, Beatrice! ... Beatrice must be severely eliminated. Lionardo braced himself for Manutius: Antiquo modo igitur milites in quincuncem dispositi---. He read on awhile, and then, with great solemnity, began to draw a diagram of Manutius's scheme of battle. Into which suddenly intruded the profile of Beatrice Traversari. How wonderful was the curve of her upper lip! How miraculous the turn of her neck to the shoulder! How---
Lionardo was still in this deplorable state when the flutes called him to supper.
There he sat next Beatrice, and his food might have been locusts and wild honey for all he tasted. She said little---she was always a taciturn goddess---and he. But what need of words? He was in heaven. He breathed the air from her lips, he looked into the depths of her mystic dark eyes.
Then the countess's choir made music for them. Count Francesco sat by the countess---poor souls, let them, too, have their joy!----while Lionardo leaned over his Beatrice's chair. The languorous madrigal hung on the air,---
"Lina was there, all loveliness excelling:The pleasure of her beauty made me sad,And yet at sight of her my soul was glad."
Lionardo sighed in luxurious melancholy, and shut his eyes to dream of the loveliness before him. Rispetto, ballad, madrigal, they followed each other, and the evening waned. The Lady Porzia, the countess's aunt, woke up to say that she was going to bed.
"Nay, one more, Giuliano; one more!" the countess cried to the chief of the musicians.
A clear tenor thrilled to Lionardo's heart,---
"Let him rebuke me whose hard heartof stoneNe'er felt of Love the summerin his vein!I pray to Love that who hath never knownLove's power may ne'er be blessedwith Love's great gain,But he who serves our lordwith might and mainMay dwell for ever in fire of Love!
I ask no pardon if I follow Love,Since every gentle heart is thrallthereof."
The song died, and Beatrice was gone. The grace of her curtsey lingered still before Lionardo's eyes. He went out to be under the stars.
It was one of the first nights of summer. The air was heavy with the fragrance of a thousand flowers. Amid white stars the silver bow of the new moon hung in a dark-blue dome. In the mulberry grove a nightingale sang out his heart.
Lionardo wandered through the rose-garden.
"I ask no pardon if I follow Love,Since every gentle heart is thrallthereof."
His heart (God help it!) beat to the music. Then suddenly stopped. There was a man under Beatrice's window. A man dared---a man dared! And then, behold, other men, one, two, three, creeping stealthily along in the shadow of the cloister. Lionardo loosened his sword. The man beneath the window looked up. The faint moonlight betrayed him. His face was the face of the Count Francesco. He looked to Beatrice's window, and his lips moved. He worshipped.
Then they fell upon him. With sword and dagger two rushed at his heart, while one came at him from behind. He heard only in time. Back he sprang out of their reach with one bound, and into the shadow. They must needs come at him through the light, and his sword was out to meet them. He drew back and back swiftly, and Lionardo saw that he was leading them away from the window. Against his will Lionardo admired the man. He had made no sound, though a shout would have brought the guard. He chose to face death rather than a brawl by a woman's window. And he faced it incomparably well. He was always in the shadow, they were always in the light. His swordplay was masterly, consummate. He was a man, this Count Francesco, despite his beauty. Lionardo was constrained to admire him. He felt no desire to help.
In the darkest gloom of the shadow something moved. The third man was creeping to Francesco's back. Lionardo came across the garden like the wind in spring. He leaped through the light at the bravo; and, behold, as he came the fellow dropped his point and reeled back, muttering "Gésu!" and fell on his knees, crying, "Pardon, my lord duke---pardon!"
"Be silent!" Lionardo hissed, his sword at the man's throat.
There was a gasp and a thud behind him. Francesco had accounted for one. The other ran, and Francesco after him.
Lionardo was peering at the face before him, and knew the man for an old soldier of his guard.
"Indeed, my lord---" he gasped.
"Piero, your lips are not fit to use my name. In the fewest words, what does this mean?"
"I swear by the Holy Cross I knew not you were here. There was no word of you, I swear it by the Evangelists. I---"
"Who hired you?"
"Castracane. Oh, by the Holy Father---"
"For whose murder?"
"It was for the sugar-plum count. Your pardon, my lord, your pardon---Count Francesco. But I swear by all that is holy I knew naught of you, my lord; and if you do not believe me, kill me!"
"I had rather keep my sword clean. Listen: I am no lord of such things as you, and you shall not call me so. Up from your knees. The posture is too good for you." The man staggered up and leaned against the wall, panting.
Francesco came back leisurely, his sword in its scabbard. "The other?" Lionardo asked.
"It is under the cypresses," said Francesco carelessly.
"You, rogue," Lionardo turned on Piero, "take that," he pointed to the dead man, "and drop it upon its fellow."
Piero and his burden crossed the garden, casting weird, horrible shadows in the moonlight.
Francesco faced Lionardo. "I thank you," he said simply.
"For nothing. We shall say, my lord, that you were set upon---under---the---cypresses." Lionardo marked the last words heavily. Francesco bowed. "The name of the gentleman who desires to be rid of you, my lord, is Castracane."
"Castracane?" Francesco repeated. "Why, what am I to him?"
"What were the Castiglioni to him? They were lords of Frido. And they mysteriously died, and Castracane is Count of Frido. Your town of Zena is near to Frido, my lord. You also, it seems, will mysteriously die."
Then, after a long pause, "The knave!" said Francesco placidly.
"Oh, you are prejudiced!" Lionardo laughed. "Well, my lord, I have told you one of your enemies. Shall I tell you another?"
"I would thank you."
"That I doubt. Another enemy you have, my lord, is yourself."
"You will explain that, sir," said Francesco very softly.
"I shall. I mean that a man is the enemy of his own honour, my lord, who acts as you act."
"And still you are obscure," Francesco murmured.
"Pray, in your passages with the Countess Lucrezia, do you tell her that you lurk beneath another lady's window in the night?"
"Some questions," said Francesco very softly, "are but insolence."
"To some men," said Lionardo, "insolence is but due."
"I understand now, entirely. I fear, sir, the moon is setting. We must wait till the morrow. In the afternoon I shall ride out beyond Pontevico. I shall hope for the illustrious honour of your company."
"I am much your debtor, my lord."
They bowed elaborately, and Francesco went in, and Lionardo cursed him for a gentleman. He was sadly conscious that the honours of the night were Francesco's from first to last.
Piero came up. "You? Bah, had you not the wit to run away?" growled Lionardo.
"My life is yours, my lord," said Piero. "Oh! pray you, my lord, believe me, I would not lift hand to you. I---"
"Follow me in," said Lionardo; and turned upon Piero his unarmoured back, fair mark for a dagger.
Came a little glad cry, "My lord!---my lord!" Piero had understood.
Lionardo turned his head. "Piero, I---" he stopped. "By the horns of the devil, the wizard again!" he muttered.
A man was stealing into the palace, and the head of him had the flowing locks of Agesilaus Chrusopoulos.
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BEATRICE TRAVERSARI leaned upon the white terrace wall and gazed down at the lake. The sky was clouded still with the after-gloom of a morning storm, and the deep waters below were like dull steel.
Lionardo came to her, brushing the raindrops from brier and arbutus and cypress in his haste. Lionardo's blood was hot. He had been writing Greek elegiacs to his love. Now he came to win her; to hold her on his heart ere he went out to fight.
Lionardo stood beside her, and he, too, looked down at the lake. "Ay, 'tis nobly dark," he said softly, "but it lacks the lustre of your eyes."
She drew away; he turned to face her; proud eyes met. "Such words, sir, are not for you to speak nor me to hear."
"A man must speak of the glory he worships."
"I trust, sir, no man is so foolish as to worship me."
"Nay, what is love but worship?"
There was something in her glorious eyes that stung Lionardo; something that looked like pity. She spoke in a low voice: "Sir, this is but pain to me; can only end in pain for you."
"Lady, I love you as I love my honour."
"I am sorry, very sorry."
"And you---you do not love me yet. I had hardly dared hope that. But, by the Mother of God---" .
"No!---no!" a quick, anxious cry. "Indeed, sir," a quaint, wistful smile passed over her lovely face, "I---I have no more love to give; I am pledged to the Count Francesco."
Lionardo stepped back like a man who has been hit. "To the Count Francesco!" he repeated dully.
"Ay!"
Many and many a time he saw Beatrice in after-days, but in his thought she was always as he saw her then: the noble grace of her form was outlined in a simple, dark gown; she stood tall and stately, but her head drooped a little, and the blush of love confessed was warm on her cheek.---Then a mist came over his eyes. He choked a groan. "Your pardon---your pardon," he said hoarsely, and stumbled away.
The northern mountains were shrouded in mist. Cloud wrack went whirling across the sky, and ever and again the sun flashed out, and was gone. Lionardo rode out to fight Francesco. The south wind roared about him, and the wind's madness possessed his horse, and it plunged beneath him and strained at the bit. But Lionardo rode stiffly, his chin on his breast. For the first time in his life he had wanted something earnestly. For the first time in his life he had not got what he wanted.
On a strip of upland turf beyond the millet fields of Pontevico Francesco sat his horse, waiting. He bowed lightly as Lionardo came, and sprang down and tethered his horse to an elm, and Lionardo did the like.
"Choose your ground, sir," said Francesco with a wave of his hand.
"I have to ask your pardon, my lord," Lionardo muttered.
Francesco started and stared. "You best know what becomes you, sir," he said with a shrug.
Lionardo let the sneer go by. He was staring still at the mountains---giant ghosts in their robe of mist. His voice was steady and deep. "Last night I spoke as a fool. I did not guess that you were anything to the Lady Beatrice. Now I know that her honour is your honour. May God be to you as you are to her."
Francesco bared his head and bowed it, and "Amen," he said---"amen." Then he looked up at Lionardo. "You, also?"
"I---also," Lionardo muttered.
They stood together a while in light, in shadow, as the sun flashed out and was hidden. The wind roared by. Then, without a word, without a handclasp, Francesco mounted his horse and rode away. Lionardo was left alone.
For hours he lay there on the hillside in the wind. All on a sudden the world had become real. Life was a game no more. Nay, it was hungry, hopeless yearning and pain and shame.... He bore the agony of hell.... He was entirely serious.
He lay there, and the sun waned. Pale, unhealthy colour gathered and gleamed in the west. The miserable day was to end miserably.... And then, while he looked, the cloud tints deepened. The midmost sky glowed crimson, and through the heart of it broke flashes of sharper red, while all around the clouds were piled rank upon rank, orange and red gold. Over all, clear as a window, the heaven was apple green.
Lionardo mounted and turned his back on the untimely splendour and rode home.
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THE Countess Lucrezia sat with Beatrice in her bower and read from a manuscript of Messer Giovanni Boccaccio. A servant came to say that the Count Francesco prayed her favour to speak with her alone. Messer Giovanni Boccaccio went to the floor. The countess's dull, dark eyes were suddenly aglow; blood surged in her neck. She signed to the servant, and "Bice, leave us," she said in a whisper, and, as Beatrice rose, sprang up and kissed her.
Francesco came in, and she made him sit beside her. "I am at your will, Francesco."
"Indeed, lady, I come to rob you."
"You are shameless."
"Of something you hold dear."
"I shall not find it hard to be generous to you."
"Beatrice has pledged me her love."
She started away from him into the corner of the couch. "Beatrice!" she gasped, her face, her neck all scarlet. "Beatrice!" and her eyes shot fire. "You dare!---ah, Francesco, you are jesting!" She flung out her hands to him, and her voice, her bosom, all her being throbbed with desire.
"I love Beatrice with all my heart and soul; and even so she loves me."
The countess flinched like a beast beneath the whip, and huddled together in the corner of the couch. She was panting. "Never!" she shrieked---"never! Not if I burn in hell!"
"Your Highness---"
"Never!" Her voice rose high again. "Never! You are traitors---base, vile, both! Never!---never!"
"Lady, for your own honour---"
"I have no honour---it is shame, now, all shame."
"I pray you---I pray you---" Francesco stammered, and turned away, hiding his eyes. For her face was ill to see, and he was shamed in her shame.
"She shall not be your wife! She shall not!---Francesco---look!---look! Am I not fair?"
"Ah, lady, enough! By the Virgin's honour, I pray you, silence."
"Look!---look! Is her skin so white as mine? Is her mouth so red? Is she---"
"Lady!---lady!" the man groaned.
"She will never love as I, Francesco. Oh, but I could make your heart throb! Francesco!---Francesco!" she came gliding to him, holding her arms wide.
"Lady, lady, for your own sake I must leave you!" he gasped, and hurried out.
Her arms fell, and she stood a moment still as a statue; then leaped forward like a wild cat, and rushed to the inner room. So madly she came in, that she tripped and would have fallen but for Beatrice. The countess tore the succouring arms away: "Do not touch me!" she cried. "You are false! ... Ah, Bice, tell me it is not true! You do not love him, indeed?"
"I love him."
"You---you dare! ... You have cheated me. You have robbed me of him.... Bice!---Bice! give him back to me."
"He loves me."
"Ay, for your beauty. You are fairer than I! ... so much! ... God help me! ... Ah, Bice, save me! Say that you do not love him."
"He loves me."
The countess started back. "You---you have been my bedfellow, my heart's friend. You are false as the fiend! But it shall not be! I tell you, it shall not be! Never!---never!"
She rushed wildly out again and through her bower and into her oratory. A moment she gazed at the golden crucifix, then caught it and cast it down. Into her bedchamber she came, and bowed over the silver mirror. Then, with a groan, turned away and rushed out again.
She would seek aid of the powers of hell.
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AGESILAUS CHRUSOPOULOS, by profession a wise man, was in his laboratory. It was a little, plain room, devoid of pretence. Crucibles, alembics, retorts of metal and glass bore strange fantastic shapes; but they were arranged for use, not display. The sage himself had laid aside his robe and zodiac chain and bent over his furnace in plain hose and doublet of purple. Some one knocked at his outer door, and the sage, with a purely mundane oath, stayed his experiment and passed to the outer room.
Here pretence was rampant. The walls were draped in black velvet. The light of day was shut out. A silver lamp burned with a flickering blue-white flame, and shed strange odours. Skeletons of man and beast stood ghastly against the black walls. Parchments inscribed with pentacles, Greek uncials of a fashion centuries old, strange astrological signs and oriental characters lay thick upon the table. There were glass vessels of a score weird shapes, enclosing horrible, shapeless things---abortions of man and beast.
Agesilaus Chrusopoulos put on his scarlet gown, his zodiac chain, parted his dyed beard, and bound a golden turban about his head. Then, as impatient knocking sounded again, he sat down and waited. Awhile afterwards he opened the door.
The countess had hurried to him. She passed the Bishop of Lojano, and did not see him in her haste. But the bishop stood still. He heard her knock and knock again, and at last the opening door. She went in.
The sage touched his forehead in an oriental salutation. "What seeks Beauty of Wisdom?" he asked in a hollow voice.
But the countess was gasping at the heavy air and its sickly perfume. In the blue-white light her face was ghastly.
The sage set for her a chair of white bone. "What seeks Beauty of Wisdom?" he repeated.
She leaned forward, her hands clasped on her knees. "You --- you pretend you have power over men?" she whispered softly.
"Wisdom pretends nothing," said the sage. He sat himself down on an ebony chair. The black frame of it was invisible in the shadow, and he seemed to rest upon air. "Wisdom has power over all---man, woman, beast, devil."
"Ay! all save God," she muttered to herself.
"Wisdom knows no God."
She looked at him a moment with fear in her eyes, then wildly round the horrors of the room, and she shuddered, and "I must," she muttered. She looked at him again, his foppery of turban and dyed curls: "You say you can bend men to your will?" she cried.
"Wisdom bends all things."
"Even love?"
The sage laughed a hollow laugh. "Wisdom turns hate to love, and love to hate, and laughs at both."
She leaned forward; her lips, her eyes came very near his. "You could make a man love me?"
"Why, how now? Can those dark eyes not win love? That marble neck, those scarlet lips, the spun gold of your hair, the clinging grace---"
"No!---no!---no!" she cried, and her cheeks were dark.
The sage smiled. He watched her with narrow, unmoving eyes, as a cat its tortured prey. "All your charms have been too little?"
"This---this is insult," she gasped.
"I seek the truth." He went pitiless on: "Your beauty has not been enough to earn this gentleman's favour?"
Her face was wrought with shame and fear and mad desire. The sage let his narrow eyes feast upon her. "Make him love me!" she moaned.
"You have tried yourself and failed?"
She covered her face with her hands and bowed herself and sobbed. The sage watched her awhile, draining his cup of pleasure to the end.
"Who is he?"
"Francesco," she muttered. "He---he loves Beatrice---and she loves him. Does that hinder you?"
"Wisdom can turn his heart from her. Wisdom can make him long for your kiss, for your heart against his. I am Wisdom."
"Do it!" she cried, and started up. She tore the jewels from her throat, her bosom, her hands, and flung them on the table. "There is your guerdon! Do it! Give me his love!"
The sage swept the jewels to one side. "These are baubles," said he; but he did not give them back. "So, 'tis the Count Francesco you"---he lingered on the words---"desire." And he smiled.
"Yes---yes!"
"You shall give him a potion that I will make, and the woman Beatrice shall be no more to him, nor he to her. You alone shall possess him---or scorn him if you choose, as he scorns you."
"Give me the potion."
"I make it now. Give me first something of yours. No," as she offered her kerchief, "not that; some part of yourself---strand of your hair."
The sage went into his laboratory, was gone awhile, and came forth with a tray of glass vessels. He mingled liquids and powders in a great beaker, and put in it the threads of golden hair she gave him and stirred all together. Then he lit a lamp that burned with the blue flame of spirits of wine, and set the beaker above it to boil, and began to chant in an unknown tongue.... A thick vapour rose, and the fantastic form swayed to and fro behind it, and the hollow monotone of strange sound dragged on.... The Countess Lucrezia crouched down in her chair, and her face was drawn and ghastly white. Fleshless bones and skulls, and loathsome, shapeless forms leered at her through the clouding air.
The incantation ended. Giving forth clouds of steam the boiling liquor was filtered into a red phial, and that was set in a bowl of water to cool. After a moment the sage took it again and pressed in a glass stopper, and said one charm more. He held out the phial: "Take it. Let him drink it in water or wine. No liquor can quell its virtue. Let him drink it, and he will love none other than you."
She snatched the phial and hurried out.
Then the sage put off his gown and his turban---the air was now hot and clammy---and wiped his brow. "Fuit---comes ille Franciscus," he said softly, and laughed. For that means: "Our Count Francesco has done with life." The sage drew the Countess Lucrezia's jewels to him and began to examine them. Then he laughed again. He seemed to think that Francesco's death had been well paid for.
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LIONARDO, you should remember, came through the twilight sadly home. It was dark, and very dark, to be a night of June, when he climbed to his quarters. On the threshold he stumbled at something---something big, heavy, and soft. He found his tinder and made a light. Piero, the bravo, lay across the doorway, stiff and cold. Lionardo bent over him. There was no blood, no trace of wound. The eyes were wide open, and from them and the grinning jaws hate still looked out. But there was no mark of agony. The man had a dagger in his right hand---a dagger bright and unstained.
How?---how? Lionardo knelt down and set his candle on the ground and moved the body gently. As he did it, the light fell on scratches in the black marble of the floor. Lionardo went upon hands and knees. C-H-R-U-S-O-P---there death had stayed the hand.
Chrusopoulos! Agesilaus Chrusopoulos, the sage.... Lionardo closed the glaring eyes and let a cloak fall across the dead and sat down to think.... Chrusopoulos had watched that fight in the garden. Chrusopoulos had heard Piero confess that Castracane had plotted the death of Francesco. And now Piero lay dead without a wound, and in death charged Chrusopoulos with his murder. Chrusopoulos had poisoned him, because---why, because he had betrayed Castracane! Chrusopoulos must be Castracane's man.
Well, and what matter? Castracane, Chrusopoulos---fit master, fit servant. The devil give them joy of each other. One Piero the less in the world. What matter for that, either? ... Ah! but he had pardoned Piero. He had given Piero life. It was impertinence for some one to take that life away.... And Piero was a man of Vellano---his subject, his man....
Lionardo tightened his sword-belt and went out to speak with Agesilaus Chrusopoulos, the sage.
But on his way he met the bishop.
Now, the bishop awhile before, as you know, had seen the Countess Lucrezia's face. He had heard her go into the chamber of Agesilaus Chrusopoulos. Thereat he reflected, hand upon lip, and the end of his reflections was that he went to speak with the Lady Porzia, the countess's aunt. The Lady Porzia awoke to receive him. After due greetings, "One grows curious with age," said the bishop.
"I," said the Lady Porzia, "grow sleepy."
"You will never be old, lady."
Dull, weary eyes looked at him. "I am old, but I do not seem able to die."
"It is perhaps because you are wanted still."
She laughed. "Have I been so much use to you, Giovanni?"
He laid his hand on hers. "And now I want your help. This afternoon something has happened." He looked a question.
"I heard a noise," said the Lady Porzia.
"I have just seen Lucrezia. Her eyes---"
"I remember my maid insisted on telling me that Francesco was with her alone. I suppose," said the Lady Porzia, looking straight before her, "that Francesco told her he loved Beatrice."
"She has gone to Chrusopoulos."
"That person affects me like foul air."
"He will give her---some charm, perhaps---some potion it is more likely. Can you put that in my hands?"
"It will be quite simple," said the Lady Porzia calmly. She asked for no explanation. She suggested no plan. "Wait!" and she went out.
The Countess Lucrezia came back to her chamber panting. Without a sound of warning the Lady Porzia entered. "Lucrezia!" she cried through the twilight, and the girl started violently, and thrust her phial behind a curtain. "Where are you, child?" She came slowly across the room to the girl's side. "The bishop asks to speak with you. Where have you been so long?"
"I --- I --- I --- I will go to him at once," the girl stammered, and hurried out.
The Lady Porzia took the phial from behind the curtain and followed.
As the countess came into her aunt's room the bishop rose and solemnly made the sign of benediction. The girl shrank away, trembling. He did not speak. "I---you---you---asked for me?" she gasped. The Lady Porzia entered.
"I came," said the bishop, "to ask your presence at High Mass to-morrow."
"Yes, yes, I will come. Is that all?"
The bishop looked at the Lady Porzia. She bent her head. "Yes, that is all," said the bishop; and as the countess slunk out he gave her his blessing again.
Then the Lady Porzia held out the phial. He took it, and "I am your debtor so many times," he said, and left her alone.
A moment afterward the Countess Lucrezia broke in again. "Aunt!" she cried---"aunt! Did you take a phial from my room?"
"Pray, make less noise," said the Lady Porzia. "Is it likely that I should take a phial?"
"But it was there, and it is gone! Think, aunt! A little phial of red glass."
"If I had taken it," said the Lady Porzia, without opening her eyes, "I should surely remember taking it."
The countess ran out again and searched her room from end to end, and questioned all her maids till they wept. And then, as she was weeping, too, for utter weariness and idle rage and shame, there was a great noise in the palace, and men came crying that the sage was gone to the devil in a flame of fire.
It happened thus:---
Lionardo, on his way to the sage, met the bishop, and the bishop took him by the arm and "Messer Lionardo," said he, "you told me once that you were an honest man."
"No, my lord. I said that I was none."
"Precisely," said the bishop. "Now will you come kill me a knave?"
"Which of my friends is due in Hell?"
"Agesilaus Chrusopoulos, sir, is too wise for this world."
"Well met, my lord! I also have my little account with him. A word in your ear---he is in the pay of Castracane."
"Have you but just found it out?" said the bishop. Lionardo stared in respectful amazement.
Again there was knocking at the sage's door. When he opened it a little way Lionardo pushed it gently wide. The bishop and he walked in, and "Pah! How vermin smell," muttered Lionardo.
But the sage did not hear. "Valour and Holiness!" he saluted them. "What have Valour and Holiness to ask of Wisdom?"
"Messer Lionardo," said the bishop, "I fear that the emotions of the conversation may lead one of us to cry out."
On the instant Lionardo's sword flashed out, and its point was pricking at the sage's throat. "I thrust if you speak," said Lionardo. A cruel smile came across his lean face.
The sage said nothing, nor moved. Behind the foppery of dyed beard and curls his face was twitching curiously. So they stood, and the bluish light flickered along the sword-blade.
The bishop's level, passionless voice sounded: "You have made a potion for the Countess Lucrezia. You are now to drink that potion." He set on the table the little red phial.
The sage made a queer noise in his throat as he stared at it. Then he looked wildly from one man to the other, and opened his mouth to speak. But the sword-point pricked. He shrank away from it, and Lionardo followed him till the table stopped him. There he stood, his eyes dilated, his hands plucking nervously at the parchments that covered the table.
"It is pleasant to see a wizard who believes in his own magic," said the bishop. "Drink!"
"Or---" said Lionardo; and the sword-point pressed.
But the sage sprang aside. He caught a glass vessel, and hurled it at the lamp. There was a roar, a blinding flash of white flame that wrapped him round. Then black, impenetrable darkness and hot, acrid smoke. The door banged loud.
Lionardo, swearing, stumbled across the room, charged against the bishop, and recoiled; found the door, flung it open, and dashed out in pursuit. And the bishop followed.
But the sage had not gone. He waited in the darkness till they were out after him, then swiftly flung off his gown and passed into his laboratory. He ran his hand over his scorched face---the flash had burned beard and hair to the skin---flung a horseman's cloak about him, put a plumed hat on his head, and went quietly out by the back stair. No one who saw him knew the swarthy bravo in black clothes for Agesilaus Chrusopoulos, the sage. So when the servants came, summoned by the loud report, timidly, yet wildly curious, they could make no better of it than that the wizard had been taken by the devil, his master, who had left some of his hell-fire behind.
And then Agesilaus Chrusopoulos did the last foolish thing in his life. He, a paid servant who had failed in his task, went back to his master, Castracane, the tyrant of Frido.
Long after, certain men, clearing out the cages of Castracane's leopards, found in a crevice of the stones a golden zodiac chain, gnawed and broken.
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THE Countess Lucrezia knelt in the night and tried to pray. She tried long, and made little of it. Her soul was ill-atune with Heaven. She rose from her knees wearily, and dragged herself out to her garden. The air was very chill, but she, in her fever, felt nothing of that. She paced up and down the marble pathway like a beast pent in a cage. While she tortured herself with dreams of vain desire, and the blood burnt in her veins, her clenched, twitching fingers struck against the golden dagger she wore in her girdle. She drew in her breath and grasped the hilt. She looked all round her lest any should see. Then swiftly went into the palace---went to Beatrice's room.
Silently she opened the door and listened. There was no sound at all. She thrust the curtain aside and peered in. A taper burned before the crucifix, and showed her Beatrice asleep. The countess crept in, plucking at her dagger as she came.
Beatrice lay asleep. Her lovely face was the lovelier in its rest. One fair arm was flung above her head, cream white against the black flood of her hair. The countess leaned over her, seeking where to strike.... Ah! but she was beautiful---too beautiful to kill. That noble, virgin loveliness, who could hate? ... There where the round throat broke in white grace to shoulder and bosom, there her own head had lain many a night. Too beautiful---too beautiful....
Beatrice stirred in her sleep, and the countess fled away. She sought her own bed at last, and tossed upon it till the tortured mind could bear no more.
The sun was high when she rose, unrested, but weary of sleep. She kept her maids long, braiding her wonderful golden hair. She chose a dress of shell-pink velvet with a girdle of gold, and then she went out to the roses. She lingered there awhile, hoping for the flowers to bring her peace.
"Nay, you are mine and I am yours, now and for ever!" It was Francesco's voice. There were Francesco and Beatrice clasped heart to heart, lip to lip. She saw the fulness of their joy. The lovers parted; Francesco bowed to the ground, and, with many a backward glance, went his way.
In a new frenzy the countess sped back to the palace and bade call Lionardo, captain of the guard. Lionardo might not be found. Why then, fools, the lieutenant. Poggio Nardi, the lieutenant, a square, grizzled old soldier, came in and saluted.
"Take a party of your men. Arrest the Lady Beatrice Traversari. Convey her in a closed litter to the castle of Santa Barbara."
"Lady Beatrice Traversari. Closed litter. Castle of Santa Barbara," Nardi repeated, and saluted and went out.
Now, Lionardo had been out that morning scouring the country for tidings of Agesilaus Chrusopoulos, and finding none. He came back dusty, and, riding through the town, met Poggio Nardi and his company of the guard in their white and gold. "Why, Poggio," he cried, seeing the litter---"why, Poggio, whose tabernacle is this?"
Poggio Nardi laid finger on lip. Lionardo drew up alongside him. "The Lady Beatrice," Poggio whispered. "She is for the dungeon of Santa Barbara."
Lionardo swore. "Why, man?---why?"
Poggio winked. "For kissing what her Highness kissed."
Lionardo looked at him awhile. "Poggio, man, there is some devil's error in all this. Go slowly, slow as a snail. I ride to the palace for a new order."
"Ride to a woman, ride to the devil!" grunted Poggio; but he reined his horse to a crawl. And Lionardo thundered off to the palace.
His brain was busy. The countess loved Francesco. Poor wretch! he had seen that in her eyes often enough. Ay, the countess loved Francesco even as he loved Beatrice. Bah! 'twas a farce of a world. And the countess would prison Beatrice for daring to love whom she loved herself. Poor wretch! it was human enough. But it must not be. Beatrice must never know a dungeon. Beatrice and her Francesco must be happy. None in the world should hinder that.
It was not the countess he sought. He galloped in at the palace gate, sprang down, and ran to Francesco's lodging. Francesco, said his serving-men, was gone to High Mass.
"Then to horse, each of you. Saddle a horse for your lord. Come all to the Sestola gate swiftly. There is haste."
Lionardo mounted again and sped away. In the square before the cathedral he came up with Francesco. Francesco wore peach-coloured silk, with garters of sapphires. Lionardo, all dust-grimed, caught him by the arm. "Whither now, my lord?"
"Sir, I go to serve God."
"Let God wait. A word in your ear, my lord. Your love is like to be prisoned."
"Prisoned!" cried Francesco.
"Will you tell it to the house---tops? Well, my lord, I may save her from that for an hour. In that hour you and she must be gone from Noventa."
"Prisoned! But the countess would not dare."
"She has dared."
"But 'tis the trick of a fiend."
Lionardo shrugged his shoulders. "Which of us is all white? My lord, you are loved by a very noble lady. Have you always remembered that when you dallied with the countess?" Francesco's swarthy face blushed darker. He looked an angry answer. Then his eyes fell. "Enough!" said Lionardo. "Hasten to the Sestola gate, my lord."
Lionardo went off again at speed. But Poggio Nardi's company were close under the grim, red towers of Santa Barbara before he caught them. Poggio's orderly was up to the iron-bound gate, had the horn at his lips. "Halt!" cried Lionardo, spurring on, and the horn fell clattering on its chain, the files of white and gold checked sharply, the black litter in the midst swayed and halted. Lionardo rode up to Poggio Nardi with a laugh on his lips. "Poggio, man, it was all a jest!" he cried.
Poggio scratched his head. "Then, by my bones, the dullest jest I ever heard. Where is the jest?"
"Hark in your ear. Her Highness only meant to scare the girl. I have seen her, and she says enough has been done. We are to turn now and bring her to the Sestola gate."
Poggio still scratched his head. "Her Highness's order?" he inquired in amazement.
"Her Highness's order."
Poggio saluted, and "Files about!" he cried, and they turned in the narrow street and marched back.
"To the Sestola gate," Lionardo continued; "and there Francesco and his men are waiting to ride off with her."
Then Poggio laughed. "So she thinks she is going to prison, and she is going to a husband? Body o' me, there is not so much difference.... And she is too wholesome a wench for the sugar-plum count. Ho, ho! There may be more jests when they are man and wife, I am thinking."
They came to the Sestola gate, and passed out and halted by Francesco and his men. Then Francesco thrust forward to the litter. But Lionardo put him aside and took the key from Poggio Nardi and unlocked the panels and slid them back.
Beatrice lay upon the wood, and she blinked at the sudden light. Then she saw Francesco. The beautiful face flamed for him. "Francesco!" she cried, and her voice was music. She held out her arms.
Lionardo drew back, hanging his head.
Francesco came and kissed her hands and lifted her to the ground, a goddess robed in silver. Then he sprang to his horse and lifted her up behind him, and crying "Follow!" went off at speed. He had altogether forgotten Lionardo.
Lionardo watched them speed away through the sunlight. Francesco turned his head and kissed her, and she clung to him, her cheek on his shoulder.
Lionardo turned away, biting hard at his lip.
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LIONARDO rode slowly back to the palace. There was something yet to do. By the mercy of Heaven there was something yet to do. Without that one would have to think---and thought was the most damnable misery on earth. Well, there was something to do. It remained to explain the jest to the countess. And she was like to be duller even than Poggio Nardi. Poor wretch! How would she answer? Rage, threats more than threats? It made no matter. He had done the only thing that a man could do. He had his honour clean. Ay, and hers, the Countess Lucrezia's? Why, none but he need know her shame. None but he---and herself. Even that was too much. As the days went by she would hate herself, scorn herself. Oh, God help her!
Lionardo came to the palace; he sent Poggio and the men to their quarters; he begged audience of the countess. He was at once admitted. Her hand was stone to his lips. He drew himself up, and spoke with his eyes turned from her face. "A report to your Highness. Meeting the Lieutenant Poggio Nardi, I found that he had mistaken your Highness's intention with regard to the Lady Beatrice. He was conducting her to the prison of Santa Barbara. Then I, knowing well that this could not be your Highness's will---"
She sprang up. "It was my will!" she cried fiercely---"it was my will! Who dares gainsay it?"
Then Lionardo turned. He saw the dark eyes blaze in a haggard face, and meeting them full, he spoke: "Then I, knowing well that this could not be your Highness's will, bade him take her to the Sestola gate. There, as your Highness would desire, I delivered her to her love, the Count Francesco, and they are gone together."
Her bosom was heaving. She hardly found voice. "She has him?" she gasped.
And Lionardo felt the shame of it. "As your Highness's nobility would desire," he said slowly.
She stared at him for a moment, panting. Then, "You mock me, you hound!" she screamed, and sprang at him and tore the riding-whip from his hand and lashed his face.
While she struck in her frenzy, and the man stood still and endured, the Lady Porzia came in, crying: "Lucrezia, where is Beatrice?"
The countess started round, all quivering still. She laughed. "I have delivered her to her love, the Count Francesco, and they are gone together. That is a jest! Will you not laugh? See, he has laughed!" She pointed with her whip to Lionardo's swelling, bloodstained face.
Then the Lady Porzia came across the room and stood between them. She turned her back on Lucrezia. "Sir," she said gently, "will you tell me the truth?"
"The Lady Beatrice and Count Francesco are together, and now upon the way to Zena. As her Highness has told you," said Lionardo quietly, and wiped the blood from his face. The Lady Porzia gave a sigh of relief, and still looked at him in wonder, in pity. But the countess laughed again. The bitterness of that laugh spurred Lionardo's mind. His work was not done yet. The countess was not safe yet. He had to explain his wounds to the Lady Porzia; he had to justify the countess to her. Nay, he had to explain those wounds to her who had made them; he had to justify the countess to herself. She must be spared more shame.
"And now," said Lionardo, "I have to ask pardon of her Highness. Indeed, I confess it was a shameful cheat. The blows you gave, lady, are no more than my desert. I have pretended to a skill not mine. I know nothing of war, and I have lived upon you by fraud. I pray you believe that I wish it undone. I was never Squarcia's lieutenant." Some choked sound came from the countess. Both women were lost in wonder. Lionardo went steadily on: "That was a jest of his, and I was a rogue buffoon to play it upon you. God knows, you did well to be angry. Such jests deserve even a worse punishment than your wrath. I am at your orders."
"Who are you, in God's name?" cried the countess.
Lionardo hesitated. There was no help for it. Out came the truth. "I am Lionardo da Feltre, Duke of Vellano." He knelt before her. "Lady, I have cheated you most basely. I pray you --- forget." He looked up to her eyes, and spoke the last words again slowly. "I pray you---forget."
Crimson-checked the countess turned away. "Go!---go!---go!" she gasped. Lionardo rose and went out.
The two women stared at the door a moment, then their eyes met. "That was not why I struck him," said the countess in a low voice.
"He wished me to think so," said the Lady Porzia. "I shall think so."
They looked at each other awhile in silence. "I did not give Beatrice to Francesco," said the countess. "I---"
"He wished me to think so. I shall think so," said the Lady Porzia. She moved to the door. "And he loved Beatrice," she said, and went out.
The countess was left fingering Lionardo's riding-whip. For the hour at least the frenzy of love had burned itself out. There were but the dead ashes of passion in her heart and despair and shame. Ay, shame! She had shown herself naked to all the world. Her love would be a common jest.... No. He had spared her that. He had cloaked her shame. To all the world he had shown her noble, her honour clean. Nay, he had even tried to persuade herself that she had not stained it.... And for that she had struck at him like some vile, sexless thing of the streets.... Still he tried to save her. He caught at the shame that was hers and took it to himself. He justified her to another; he had fought hard to justify her to herself.
The lean, grave face rose suddenly before her, and then she saw it swollen and wet with blood. Her eyes grew dim.
"And he loved Beatrice." Was it so, indeed? He loved Beatrice, and because she loved Francesco he had been Francesco's friend and won Beatrice for him. That was his way of love? Yet he did not hate the woman who would have flung Beatrice into a prison. In his own despair he could feel for her, and work to lighten her shame.... There was a greatness about the man.
She looked down at his whip. The stain of his blood was on her fingers.... Tears glistened on her cheeks---slow, remorseful, difficult tears.... She forgot her own loss, her own misery. She thought of his, and for him she felt. And in that hour her shame was forgotten too.
Lionardo had conquered.
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LIONARDO had turned his back on Noventa. He trudged through the millet fields into the sun glare. He was very much alone. Now there was nothing left to do. Only thought remained---wracking thought of Francesco's happiness.... Ah, surely it was the devil that gave man imagination! ... He tried to drive all fancy, all reflection away, to make his mind inert. He fell to counting the sunflowers amid the millet, his own steps, the millet stalks. Anything was worth doing that held thought at bay.
The wheals on his face helped him as they stiffened and smarted in the heat. That pain was grateful. While he gave himself up to it, it seemed to him that eyes were looking into his, dark eyes blazing in a haggard face. Poor child, who could help her? Why, in God's name, should she, too, suffer this? Was not one enough to make sport for Heaven? And she was but a child. He fell to thinking of her---the long strands of her golden hair, her white skin and her scarlet lips, her slight, languorous grace. Her sorrow helped to deaden his own.
The sun set, and still he walked on and on and on till the night was old. Before the body was utterly weary he had no hope of sleep. He was near fainting at last when he flung himself down beneath the vines, and in an instant forgot all.
With the dew on his brow he woke. All another day he trudged on over the waveless plain, and the next day came near to the mountains. There he met a cavalcade of grave, reverend, and obese gentlemen and mules. They shaded their eyes---the gentlemen---and peered at him, even from afar. Then Lionardo, who also had stared, stood still. They urged their mules on mightily, and the first of them, a sage with a paunch and a beard, came to Lionardo, crying: "Your Highness, your Highness, I have sought you two months," and he dismounted and knelt.
"I am sorry you had nothing better to do," said Lionardo.
The man arose, and saw the wheals on Lionardo's face. "Heaven! Your Highness has met with misfortune. Your Highness's countenance---"
"Benedetto, if we are to criticise each other's appearance, I shall make you blush."
"I humbly pray your Highness's pardon. I am presumptuous," said Benedetto Perrotti, dropping his eyes.
"You are no more humble than the Alps, Benedetto; and much less picturesque. Why have you devoted two months of your invaluable life to looking for me?"
"If it please your Highness, you had no more than left Vellano when there came an embassy from Jacopo Castracane, who calls himself Marquis of Frido, proffering alliance to your Highness. This neither the chancellor nor I could answer without knowing your Highness's will."
"You will make answer to Castracane that when I require an assassin I will remember him."
Benedetto Perrotti stroked his beard. "That means war," said he.
"And war," said Lionardo, "would be a diversion."
"Your Highness insists upon that answer?"
"Make it as oily as you please, Benedetto, but that is the matter of it."
Benedetto bowed. "May I hope that your Highness will return to Vellano in our company?"
"Why," said Lionardo with a crooked smile, "why, I have found so much happiness alone that I think I will be alone a while longer."
"But your Highness is now returning to Vellano?" said Benedetto anxiously.
"You behold me making my triumphant return."
"Your Highness will not continue to walk? Pray do me the honour to take one of our beasts."
"I observe, Benedetto, that you have only mules. I have not sufficient stomach to look well upon a mule. Benedetto"---as Benedetto Perrotti was about to continue the discussion---"I grieve that you cannot stay any longer. Benedetto, good-day."
Lionardo stood still and watched them turn and climb the hills till they vanished. Then he, too, went on, and climbed and climbed till nightfall. A march through the pine woods in the fresh morning air brought him close to the little inn where fortune had begun to play with him. He avoided the inn. He had no wish to meet Squarcia again. Squarcia had had sport enough.
Away down the hillside he came upon Bianca watching her kine and eating from a great basket of cherries. "Why!" cried Bianca, "'tis the gentleman that wants to be dead! And what have you done to your face?"
"I have made it the scapegoat of my folly," said Lionardo.
"Does it hurt?"
"In the pain of the flesh I take refuge from the pain of the spirit."
Bianca ate two cherries. "I see that you still wish to be dead."
"It is, believe me, the one wise wish for men."
"I do not believe you at all."
"Child," said Lionardo solemnly, "I pray that you never will."
"I wonder," said Bianca with her head on one side, "what is the matter with you."
"The spring has gone out of my heart."
"But the spring always comes back. And the trees live through the winter, and they are glad again---the trees and the birds."
"Some die in the night of winter, and are glad to die."
"They are the cowards."
"Cowards? To welcome death?"
"To be afraid of life."
Lionardo looked at her long. "So may you always think, child," he said, and went his way. Bianca looked after him awhile, then went on eating her cherries.
The sun was setting before Lionardo stood on the hill above his own town of Vellano and looked down over the vineyards and the fields of maize and millet to Vellano's hundred towers. The evening glow was all about them; he saw a city of gold.
"O mockery!" cried Lionardo. "O home of desolation!"
The malady of self-concern had hold of him now.
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A LITTLE company, stalwart and extremely neat, rode into Noventa. Squarcia, rounder than ever after weeks of idleness, was coming to see how his joke had fared. He halted at Noventa's best inn, and demanded its best room and its best wine. The master of the house, a gay little man, served him.
"Take a cup for yourself, man," said Squarcia. "Today to thee, to-morrow to me!" and he drank.
"And heaven for both!" quoth the little man, drinking; "that is, with your honour's permission."
"If you can get me there, you may come yourself," said Squarcia. "Well, my friend, and what is your news in Noventa?"
"Sir, alarms and an exodus."
"Expound, my oracle---expound!"
"Know then, sir, that her Highness kept a wizard, a sage, learned in the white magic and the black; the lore of the stars; the Grecian mysteries; the science of the Zoroastrians, and the dyeing of beards."
"I have met the breed. What has he done?"
"Sir, he has gone to the devil."
"So much the worse for the devil. How?"
"Three nights ago there sounded a loud roar in the sage's room. When they ran there, there was no sage at all, but a very evil smell. Since then the sage has not been seen. And the smell being such as no gentleman would have made, Fra Donato infers the devil."
"Then, praise God for all!" said Squarcia, and held out his cup for more wine. "But one smell does not make an exodus, my friend. Has any one else gone to the devil?"
"Sir, several others have gone; but whither, God knows! The Count of Zena---whom malicious persons call the sugar-plum count---otherwise Count Francesco---"
"One name suffices. He is not the Trinity."
"Count Francesco, then, sir, has gone also. But in his case there was no smell. And the only reason to infer the devil is that he took a woman with him. Count Francesco, sir, had been for many weeks on a visit to her Highness. The town said commonly that he was victim to her charms. Matrimony was the babble of the streets. But look you!---look you! On one night the sage vanishes in a stink. On the next morn Count Francesco gallops off with---her Highness? No, by Cupid! With her Highness's lady-in-waiting. Is that all? No, by the Muses! Two hours later, off goes her Highness's captain of the guard, with (God heal him!) a most desperate scratched face."
Squarcia twirled his ring. "Who had scratched the gentleman?"
"Sir, we approach mysteries."
"I have some acquaintance among gentlemen of the sword. What like was this captain?"
"Of royal bearing, with a royal nose, a nose huge and masterful, and hair that warmed your heart to see. Lionardo Feltre he was called, and he was pleasant to meet as a day in spring. He was a brother to all of us, man, maid, and wife. He won all hearts, even my wife's. And I have never done that myself."
Squarcia played with his ring and his neck-chain. "I do not recognise the gentleman," said Squarcia. "I will have another flask of wine." When it came, he dismissed the little man and drank and pondered. "There is more in this than I understand." That was his valuable conclusion. He took horse and rode to the palace.
The illustrious General Squarcia asked audience of her Highness, the Countess Lucrezia. So his squire announced.
In a moment Squarcia was brought to her presence. The countess surveyed him with indignation and wrath. Squarcia, blandly blind to her blazing eyes, bowed and waited.
"It surprises me that you should venture here!" she cried.
Squarcia jerked back shoulders and head. "Your Highness's surprise surprises me," he said haughtily. "I have your Highness's commission to command your forces. My lieutenant---"
"You cheated me!"
Squarcia laughed. "Women are allowed words."
"I say that you cheated me! He was not your lieutenant."
"But I say he was. And, by Pompey! I should know best."
"He was the Duke of Vellano."
"And if he were the Duke of Paradise he might still be my lieutenant. What, lady, do you cry out at me? I send my lieutenant---a very proper man, by the Pope!---to take my place for a while, and you scratch his face and turn him out. I wait to hear your excuse."
And the countess, crimson and white by turns, and quivering, gasped, in angry amazement, "My---excuse?"
"Ay, by Pompey! Your excuse."
The countess rose. "Sir, you forget your place and mine."
"Well, and did you remember it when you scratched Lionardo's face?"
"It is enough," said the countess, very white. "You are dismissed."
"I dismiss myself, by St. Paul! A woman who forgets she is a woman is no mistress for me."
"Nor a gentleman who forgets he is a gentleman, servant of mine!" cried the countess fiercely. "Your lieutenant, who comes whining to you---"
Squarcia swore a rattling, sulphurous, soldier's oath. "The man is a man. He could not tell of you if I racked him. How do I know that you turned on him like a beast? Why, because you have told me so. I come to find him here, and they tell me he has gone away with his face cut to pieces. I ask you for an excuse, and you, by the horns of the devil! you think it your right to be a wolf, a wild cat. But he must not tell. That would be base. Be easy, he will not tell! He is a man. But, by Pompey! what are you?" Round swung Squarcia with a clatter of spurs, and out.
The countess stood there alone, her heart beating fast, her cheeks tingling. It was like being whipped to hear that rough voice, those rough words. A new feeling---not wholly unpleasant. She was vile; she deserved punishment; there was a certain pleasure in being punished. Indeed she was vile---no woman, a beast, a wolf, a wild cat. She flung herself down and enjoyed another new sensation, an orgy of self-abasement.
The end of it was that she went to her confessor. Who was not a fool.
Squarcia, riding out of Noventa as the shadows lengthened, continued to ponder. "By Pompey! I understand it less and less," was his conclusion. So he made for Vellano.
Lionardo received him. Lionardo was clad in fantastic clothes of silver grey, slashed with black, and they and the gloom of his healing face suggested to Squarcia funerals. "Well, Messer Lionardo, so I owe you a hole in the leg and you owe me a scratched face. Shall we call quits?"
"By your leave! And talk of neither more."
"Softly!---softly! I have ridden all the way from Noventa to talk about them."
"Sir, you add one more to the idle deeds of men."
"Pooh! Now, Messer Lionardo, why did the countess scratch your face?"
"Sir, you assume absurdly; you presume absurdly; and, lastly, you are tiresome."
"Well," Squarcia admitted, "your face is your own."
"I thank you for the concession."
"And I hope you like it. Well," Squarcia looked him up and down, "what are you in mourning for?"
"I mourn, sir, for the dead spring of my heart."
"Who killed it?"
"Wisdom. When wisdom comes, joy dies, and the winsome fragrance of the spring."
"Winsome fragrance of the devil," said Squarcia. "Messer Lionardo, can you talk sense?"
"Alas, I now talk nothing else. It needs the gay heart of spring to taste the sweets of folly. In this too real world---"
"Look you, Messer Lionardo, life is too short to play with. Deal in facts, not vapours. Why did the sage go off in a stink?"
"Sage?" Lionardo repeated dreamily. "Sir, you talk of what happened a thousand years ago, and I remember nothing about it."
"And the sugar-plum count and his lady?"
"They loved each other a thousand years ago, and have been happy a thousand years. Can I tell you any more, sir?"
"Yes, by Pompey! Tell me in ten plain words what happened at Noventa."
"Noventa?---Noventa? Ah! that was a thousand years ago. Since I was at Noventa the spring has gone out of my heart. I remember no more."
"Death and the devil! Do you remember that you are alive?"
"I am not alive. I dream."
"And do you mean to wake?"
"By God's mercy, no. I dream of the languorous moments when my spring died, and my wounded heart sings. I have made twelve sonnets on the matter, if you have an ear for melody."
"Melody?" Squarcia spluttered---"melody? Are you nothing but a fiddle? I thought you---God save you! --- a man."
"You mistake," said Lionardo. "I am but a ghost."
And then Squarcia gave him up. Squarcia rolled out, puffing and blowing. Lionardo was left to voluptuous indulgence in sorrow.
Squarcia rode out through the ripening maize and pondered again. "I understand nothing at all about it." That was the ultimate conclusion. "I will go to the sugar-plum count. The third thrust is always lucky."
So he rode off to Zena, the little town among the hills, and there he tried his third thrust. He required audience of Count Francesco. Count Francesco, he was told, was closeted with the prior of the Dominicans. "To-day to him, to-morrow to me," quoth Squarcia, and came back again on the morrow. But that was St. Mary Magdalen's Day, and Count Francesco was never out of his chapel. Again Squarcia tried a third thrust. But on the next day Count Francesco was again closeted with the prior of the Dominicans.
Squarcia gave him up too. Squarcia gave up the whole affair. "A wolf has bitten them all. They are all mad," said Squarcia. "And if I think about them any more I shall be mad too." So he turned his horse to the south, seeking sanity and war. Italy could always show you a war for the asking in those days.
"Now, on the third day of the Lord Squarcia's journey" (thus it is written in the seventh book and the forty-third chapter of Piero's history) "he came by the Castle of Castagnaro, which stands to the westward of Frido. And the Lord Squarcia saw upon the towers of the Castle of Castagnaro, the banner of Jacopo Castracane, he who by a thousand murders had made himself tyrant of Frido. Now, the sun was bright just before the setting, and the western clouds shone as silver, so that the banner and its device showed very clear. Now, the device was a red wolf's head. This the Lord Squarcia saw, and 'An omen,' saith he to his heart---'an omen. Behold the wolf that has bitten them!' Concerning omens and the science of augury I have written"---in twenty-seven books, which are now happily lost.
So Squarcia saw the wolf's head red against the white sky. He may have believed in omens. There was one condottiere of his day who, it is written, "never changed his shirt without consulting the stars." It needed no faith in omens to argue that with Castracane---Castracane, glutton of blood and power, planted in a land of fools, there would be a chance for a soldier. Squarcia went back to the uplands, and there he lingered, living a most simple, saintly life till the summer was gone.
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FRANCESCO and his bride came joyously, you'll not doubt, to Zena. Then there were days of ecstasy. Each for joy in the other forgot all the world beside. But those days were quickly gone. Francesco, indeed, would have had them last. His passion still burned white hot. He must still give himself up, body and soul, to the sweet madness of love, and that madness he still asked of his wife. But Beatrice was of another temper. She yielded herself to the first fierce blast of passion, it fired her body and soul, and she was glad. Then and soon that flame burnt itself out. Her calm, wise soul could not be long afire. But if the flame of passion raged in her no more, love was left---love very strong and tender, a love, she told herself, boundless, eternal. She listened, she submitted to his transports with a grave, tender smile. She denied him nothing except such fierce passion as his own. That she had not to give.
Francesco did not understand. To Francesco love was passion and passion was love. He had lived all his life in the grip of emotion. A wonderful affection for his mother had filled his boyhood. That passed into a lust for fighting, and for years he cared only for the clash of arms, the gleam of war, and death. Then came Beatrice. Her kiss thrilled his soul like a fight against odds. All the world was nothing while he held her to his heart. There was no joy in Earth or Heaven but that.
So should she feel, too, if she loved him. Like him she should yearn for each new kiss, her heart should throb to each caress---ay, if she loved him. But she never sought his kiss now. She lay still in his arms. There was no flame in her eyes. Once and again he told her fiercely that she had no love for him now, but she only laughed and kissed his hand. That Francesco could not understand, that way of love.
His own passion, unfed, burnt dim. There could be no love ecstasy alone, and without ecstasy love was nothing to him. Without ecstasy, without some dominant emotion, life itself was nothing. He fell to lingering in lonely places. He was silent, brooding over his own fate.
Beatrice, silent of nature herself, happy always in quiet, needing no passion to feed her own great love---Beatrice still did not understand. In his silence, his loneliness, she thought him happy as herself.
But the man was miserable. He did not blame her at all. He told himself that she had not cheated him. She had professed love, and she had given what love she had---a feeble love, indeed, the love of a little soul; but what help for that? No, there was no blame to give, naught to do but weep that her soul was not as great as his. And (God save him!) he wept.
From babyhood he had been drunk with emotions. Now he was suddenly sober, and, behold, life had lost its charm. He had no more zest in being or doing than the tool in a craftsman's hand.
To be free, to be master of his own passions, to be captain of his soul---the joy of that he had never learnt. His life was only a dull round of duties. Nothing happened at Zena. It might have done the man good if more of Castracane's bravoes had tried to kill him. But Castracane raised no finger against him. Castracane seemed content in his escape. And Francesco might well have asked himself why. But weary of the emptiness of life he was seeking nervously for a new emotion. He had begun to be concerned about his soul.
The mountains rise steep above Zena, and a dark pine-wood hangs over the town. Thither Francesco would go afoot and wander in the gloom. There one morning he came upon another lover of loneliness and dark. It was the prior of the Dominicans at Zena. Francesco did not see the black gown till it was close before him.
"God give you peace, my son!"
Francesco bent his head. "I pray for that." The Dominican sighed heavily. Francesco looked up at his bulky, strong face.
"Alas, my son, you have much need of prayer."
"So have all sinners."
"So have all sinners, whereof," the prior lifted his eyes to heaven, "I am the greatest. But you need prayer very much. My son, your soul is ill at ease. You do well to commune with yourself alone. Commune also with the Blessed Virgin, and beseech her that the way to peace may be made plain."
Francesco looked at him, wide-eyed. Nothing could be less spiritual than the wide, full face, the heavy jowl. But there was power in it, and power in the keen, sunken eyes. "Is there peace in this world, my father?" he asked with a little, bitter laugh.
"For those who are not of the world. Seek and thou shalt find. The road is the road of prayer."
"I thank you, my father."
"I do but my duty," said the Dominican. "And for thee, my son, my soul yearns. It was thy father who set my feet upon the way of peace and heavenly bliss."
Francesco looked at him a long time. "As a monk?" he said in a low voice.
"As a soldier of the Virgin."
Francesco still looked at him awhile, then without a word turned away.
The Dominican paced on through the gloom, and a smile came on his thick lips, a curious, cruel smile.
After a while Francesco went home and spent an hour on his knees. The next day the Dominican visited him and the next. Day by day the hour before the crucifix was multiplied. He was zealous at the daily rites as a young novice. He gave up mind and sense to the throbs of spiritual passion, the intoxication of religion. He had found once again an emotion to rule him utterly. That slavery he loved, that was happiness.
The summer waned and passed. The vintage was over. There came the strong south winds of the turn of the year, the massed white clouds, and the heavy rain. The torrents thundered down in spate. The chill of winter was in the air. Francesco's new ecstasy endured. He had forgotten his love for his wife in his love for the Virgin.
Beatrice was not troubled. She gave few words, few tokens of love; she asked none of him. Her love was not for show, and she was well content that his should be like hers. That his love was dying she never guessed. Her love could never pass nor weaken. How then should his? And as the months went by, she, too, was happy to be alone. In her, too, a new emotion stirred, and she was glad, body and mind and soul.
On a winter's day Francesco knelt at his devotions. The sun was almost set, and most of his room was shrouded in dark. A glow from the embers reddened the marble floor and the carved ivory of the bed. Candles burned in the corner before the crucifix of ivory and gold, and their light fell on Francesco's dark, beautiful face. It was even more beautiful than of old. Each turn of feature, each line, was finer, subtler, more delicately wrought. But it was not alive. It was not the face of a man.
Beatrice came in, but he, in his ecstasy, did not hear. She stood beside him, the light fell about her, her noble form revealed in the close, dark gown she loved. But Francesco did not feel her presence. He was communing with saints. She laid her hand on his shoulder.
Francesco opened his eyes and stared dully, like a man waked from a dream.
"Francesco, you never come to me now."
"All life is too little for the Virgin's service."
"Am I to have none of your life? Francesco, I want to---to speak---now." Francesco rose stiffly from his knees. He did not look at her. His eyes were on the crucifix. "Francesco---oh! can you not look at me a moment?" He turned, and the face she saw was the face of a spirit wondering at human folly. She took his hands and drew very close. "Francesco, have you not guessed?" The same wondering stare answered, and she gave a laugh that was half a sob. "Ah, but you see nothing! Francesco --- in a little while---we shall have a child." Her bosom rose high, her eyes shone gloriously.
"It was to be expected," said Francesco.
She dropped his hands, she drew away from him wide-eyed and crimson, amazed, ashamed, frightened. "Can you not understand?---can you not understand?"
But Francesco's face told plainly that he understood nothing at all---nothing of her joy, her pride, of the crown of love and life. She turned and fled from him as from a monster of another world.
Francesco knelt again before his crucifix.
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SO fared the two happy lovers.
Meanwhile Lionardo, says his history, gave his days and nights to rendering into Italian the lamentations of Propertius, Catullus, and other gentlemen who have had ill-luck in love. He was making a book of them, which, the history solemnly asserts, he called "Tears of Dead Love." But I like to believe that that is not true.
And the Countess Lucrezia? One winter's day, when the Countess Lucrezia was gone riding, the bishop waited upon the Lady Porzia. They greeted each other always with a grave tenderness, these two, between whom love had somehow gone awry.
"Lucrezia goes riding often?" the bishop asked.
"Lucrezia does all that she used to do." The Lady Porzia stared straight at the rose-pink tapestry that hid the wall. "I think that Lucrezia means to live her life." The bishop looked down at his violet shoes. "Lucrezia now suffers from the belief that she is base. She may be quite right; but it does not make her happy. She has only one rag left to cover her shame---that is courage. Courage is the one thing on which she can still pride herself. She means to keep that to the end," the Lady Porzia concluded, and shut her eyes.
"Poor child!" said the bishop.
"One is never poor while one has courage."
"God help her!"
"I had rather it were some man," said the Lady Porzia.
That day when the Countess Lucrezia came back from her ride, when she sprang down from her horse in the courtyard of red marble and white, a man started forward out of the shadows and flung himself on his knees before her, and touched her foot and the hem of her garment. "I am your Highness's suppliant!" he cried. The colour, the very fashion of his clothes was hidden beneath mud and dust. His face was splashed, too, and his hair. But his eyes were bright as flame.
"Who are you, sir?"
"I am Ramiro Capucci."
"The soldier of Mantua?"
"Mantua's soldier once. Now Mantua's outlaw."
"Ramiro Capucci, who beat the Venetians at Vergato?"
"I am proud that your Highness recalls it."
"And Mantua has made you outlaw?"
"For killing a man and kissing a woman. And I am your Highness's suppliant."
"I will hear your story, sir. Till then, at least, you are my guest."
Ramiro Capucci raised her dress to his lips as she passed by. Then he rose with a smile of content. In a moment a servant led him away.
The countess's new lady-in-waiting, Ottavia Segni, was not beautiful. She seems also to have been a fool. The countess no doubt chose her for a contrast, and certainly found her a penance. The Lady Porzia very naturally avoided her on all occasions. So when Ramiro Capucci was summoned to the countess's presence he found only Ottavia with her Highness. It is probable that he did not see Ottavia, for she was one of those women whom it is difficult to see without effort. And the countess required his eyes.
Her face was lit by the spirit of life. Her dark eyes glowed. Over each shoulder was drawn a great braid of golden hair. She wore a flowing dress, now pink, now golden, as the light fell, like a ripening peach. She lay back, framed in a dark-blue chair, and rested her little pointed chin on one hand as she looked at him.
Ramiro Capucci had shed his mud. He appeared now in doublet and hose of russet brown, slashed with gold. He was not above the middle size, but broad of shoulder and long of limb. His pale face had a look of hard power. He and the countess studied each other, and she saw that over his heart was a scrap of ribbon, golden and white. He had put on her colours already.
"Well, sir, your story!---your story!" she cried sharply.
Ramiro Capucci came nearer and bowed. "I am Ramiro Capucci, and I was bred to arms. I have been a captain in Mantua's service, and I have won certain small battles for Mantua. Your Highness and Italy know of them. It suffices. I came to Mantua and I found myself a maid. Clarice Filelfo she was called. She was one of your maidens early ripe. She had a way of looking up through her eyelashes with full lips just parted. She understood love very well. I loved her. I think she loved me. That was in the spring. Long months ago, as your Highness remarks.
"I was all the summer in arms upon the Venetian marches. I had a few letters from Clarice at first, but I knew that she had no ease with the pen. After a while I had no letters at all. The Venetian frogs kept us watching them late. It was not till October that I was back in Mantua. Six months since I had kissed Clarice. I went to her hungry---hungry.
"But Clarice was gone. They took me in to her father, old Filelfo, and he shook and stammered and was purple. Then he blurted out that Clarice was a wife. I did not kill him. He was not enough of a man. I think I laughed for a long time. Then he told me that she was married to Carlo Pepoli, the son of the usurer, and that Carlo Pepoli would pay me forfeit. I laughed again, and said that I would trouble Carlo for that. And old Filelfo told me that I bore it like a man.
"Clarice and her Carlo had gone to Bologna to visit his uncle. I waited till they came back to Mantua---twelve days ago. Old Filelfo had given them a house by his own. I did not go till nightfall, and I tied my horse at the door by a single knot. I told the footboy I desired to see Carlo, and waited while he took the message, and listened which way he went. He came back in a hurry, and said that Messer Carlo would receive me in the morning, and while he said it I struck him---so---with the gauntlet on my hand behind the ear. I caught him as he fell, so that he should make no noise, and laid him down. Then I went by the way he had gone. It was very easy. I was up the stairs, and a light showed under a door. I stopped and heard Clarice --- Clarice. Would your Highness like to know what she said?" The man stopped. His face was distorted, his eyes ablaze.
"No!---no!---no!" the countess cried; but her hands were tight clasped, her eyes eager.
The man laughed. "No matter! They were such words as a loving wife should say. I had not guessed that she loved him. I thought she was bought and sold. But she loved him! Clarice loved him! Let her love him still!" he laughed again horribly. "I listened a moment. Then I went in to them. She was dressing her hair---it is very long and brown, and her arms were white against it. He kissed them, and she laughed. I did not wait. I took Carlo by the throat and stabbed him, and I flung him down on their bed, and the blood began to wet his shirt. His heart was slit before his kiss was cold on her arm. Then I looked at her and I laughed. She had not cried out, she had not moved. She looked at the still thing on the bed. 'Will you ride with me, Clarice?' I said. Then she turned to me and looked for a moment, and she said, 'You!---you!' very low. Then she sprang up, and 'Kill me!---kill me, too!' she cried. And I was sure that she did love him. So I did not kill her. I gripped her in my arms, all white and soft and warm, and I kissed her mouth and her eyes. But I am afraid Carlo was dead before that. Then I put her down beside him quite gently, and 'Now live, Clarice! --- live!' I said, and I went out. She began to scream." The man stopped a moment, smiling.
"Your Highness will understand that there was no tarrying in Mantua for me. Old Filelfo, and Pepoli, the father, they are persons of importance. The guard at the main gate opened for me---I was Mantua's captain of horse. I made fifty miles from Mantua before I halted. I am now your Highness's suppliant."
The countess looked at him a long time. "You are welcome," she said at last. "I need a man." Ramiro Capucci bowed and knelt, and she gave him her hand to kiss. She looked down into his fiery eyes. "Tell me---did you not want to die yourself?"
Ramiro Capucci, rising, shrugged his shoulders. "A man has his honour," he said. "It is not honourable to run upon death. I fight all fights to the end, countess."
The countess looked assent. Her gloomy dark eyes had brightened, there was the tint of blood in her white cheeks. "You are a soldier. There is work for a soldier here. You will hold yourself at my orders."
Ramiro Capucci bowed and withdrew.
Then the countess, turning, saw Ottavia staring at the curtain that fell behind him, and Ottavia's eyes were swollen with fear, like a rabbit's before a snake. "Well, Ottavia?" said the countess smiling.
Ottavia gasped. "Your Highness, that man is surely the devil."
"I understand him very well," said the countess.
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AT the first touch of winter Squarcia came down from the uplands and found quarters in the vineyard villages. His little company had multiplied. There were never more than six with him, but from day to day others would come singly or in pairs to the village where he lay, have a word or two with the great man's companions or (less often) with himself, and vanish again. Squarcia never went far afield. He would give some hours a day to fencing---"if I sweated not damnably I should become a barrel," said he; but the rest of his time was spent reading---they say that he knew all that had been written of war in Latin and Italian---and in good fellowship with the peasants. Squarcia, son of a vintner's maid and an English shipmaster, was a brother to every honest man and woman---and some others beside. He talked to the Doge of Venice (it is upon record) as to the peasants, to the peasants as to the Doge. He was as great as one and no greater than the others. It is probable that he enjoyed these months in the villages very greatly.
But he had his business. He was watching the marches of Frido. His thin chain of men was flung far. Week by week he learned that travellers were making for Castagnaro and Frido --- a steady flow. The little eyes twinkled in his hairy face. "I do not like these pilgrims," he would say. "Castagnaro is no good shrine, and Castracane is the devil of a saint. I do not like these pilgrims at all."
Then a man came in to tell that he had seen Castracane himself away on the hills between Noventa and Vellano. All Lombardy knew Castracane---the narrow, jutting forehead, bald of eyebrows; the livid pallor; the pressed lips. He was the monster of his day. He stole away boys and maids, he set his dogs to tear their living flesh, he drank their blood, he---the tales cannot be told.
Squarcia frowned. "What has the wolf to do there?" he muttered.
"I profess, sir, he does nothing that I see," was the answer. "He has stayed a night and a night in different weeks at a little inn on the crest of the foothills by Monselice, above the plain of Vellano, where---"
"I know it," Squarcia snapped. "Watch it!" It was the inn where he had met Lionardo, the inn of Bianca. "Take another man! Watch it!"
Still the stream of pilgrims flowed to Castagnaro and Frido. It was not till Christmastide that Squarcia moved. Then at the dawn of one grey day he got on his horse and rode through the vineyards with his chosen half-dozen. Mulberry, elm, and vine rose about them in quaint nakedness. The air was wet and thick, and Squarcia swore at the near horizon. They rode on in no order, a sombre-hued little company, with a great skill in making themselves invisible. They kept to the hills. Sometimes a man started up out of the ground to salute them. Sometimes they saw wayfarers plodding by twos and threes along the valley. After hours of riding the castle of Castagnaro loomed, a black mass, before them. They drew nearer and nearer, till the narrow towers stood out, and they saw Castracane's banner drooping on high. Squarcia held up his hand for a halt, and sat still in the saddle, his ear turned towards the castle. Some sound came down the valley....
Squarcia turned round to his men. "Pike drill. The old drill. The old fool!" said he.
"There are only a few there," said one of his men.
"Let us try the other kennel."
They turned away from the castle, and by a vile mountain track came round it and on to the hills above Frido. In the last of the daylight they saw battalions at drill under the walls. There were the numbers.
Squarcia struck straight through the dark for his quarters. As the next day dawned he was writing a letter.
"To Bernardo Bruni, at the house of Messer Palla Varchi, the Painter, in Milan:
"How goes the paint, dear child? If you can make me look less like a goat in a barrel than that rascal who painted me in Florence, you shall paint me when you come again. And that, by Pompey! you must do quickly. There is war in the air, my Bernardo. I smell it! War with fools who use the old drill! A smashing war, I warrant you! Therefore, come! There are many painters in Italy, but only one captain of infantry. Come! and you shall paint the vineyards red. I need you, child!
"SQUARCIA---who loves you well.
"From Sestola, on St. Stephen's Day."
That done and sealed, Squarcia took parchment, and with red ink drew upon it a rose. Beneath it he put the one word SESTOLA and the date. It was the fiery cross of the condottiere.
So Squarcia summoned his army and moved away to Sestola, that his muster should be beyond Castracane's vision. And once again in the days that followed it was told him that Castracane had been at Bianca's inn.
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THE breath of spring was in the air. The earth was waking anew.
In his palace at Vellano, Lionardo held what he called (God help him!) his Parliament of the Arts. The room was lined with columns of peach-coloured stone, and from them sprung arches of green serpentine, in which shone the flames of the cedar-wood fire. About a table of ebony, ivory, and gold sat the elect of the arts in motley array. Some wore trim garments of many colours, and oiled curls hung over their jewelled ears. Some were patently reverend in long gowns of sombre hue with long beards to match. There were Forli and Niccolo Pallavicini, the painters, and Petrucci, whose verses, alas, survive, and Pitti, with his silver lute, and Giannotti, the sculptor, and Filelfo, who called himself the second Quintilian, and Vergerio, who said he could read Hebrew, and several rhetoricians more---as fine a company of egoists as Italy could show.
Lionardo presided. Lionardo was a harmony in silver and pink---one leg of him each colour; his body silver, with pink slashes. His buttons were emeralds, he wore an emerald chain about his neck. At the side of the lean, humorous face, stuck over one ear in his bushy red hair, was a white lily.
One likes to believe that he laughed at himself.
They were discussing the Expression of Woe in Art. The rhetoricians and the poet held the field, and the momentous question was, Had Virgil or Catullus stirred the more emotion---Virgil, with his grave pathos, or Catullus, with his melodious sob? The rhetoricians analysed sorrow and Catullus's metre with meticulous care. The poet contributed a few fragments of versified grief of his own. Then the painters struck in, and were voluble concerning grief in line and colour. Each man insisted on the necessity of grief in the world, so that Art might reach its highest. Pitti sang to his lute a dirge of his own making. "For my mother, your Highness," said he, bowing to Lionardo's praise. "The crown of my art." The rhetoricians took up the word again, and the babble flowed on. Then Lionardo was prayed for his own sentence. "Silence!---silence! His Highness pronounces!" they cried, and leaned forward to catch his invaluable words.
Lionardo began to speak in balanced sentences adorned with flowers of rhetoric. While he spoke, his chancellor, Ghiberto Correggio, came in and stood beside his chair. The chancellor said nothing at all. He waited there in his robe of black and gold, and his sharp face was motionless as bronze. Lionardo's melodious periods grew suddenly shorter. He came to a curt conclusion. They began to pay him compliments. "I shall hope to see you to-morrow, gentlemen," said Lionardo. The illustrious company trooped out.
Lionardo lay back in his chair with the manuscript of Catullus. "I thought," he said, studying the manuscript---"I thought, my lord, that I had desired no intrusion when these gentlemen honoured me with their presence."
"A matter has arisen which touches your Highness's honour."
Lionardo still read Catullus. "I was not aware, my lord, that my honour was in your charge."
"Your Highness is aware that you are Duke of Vellano," said the chancellor sharply.
"And equally that you are not, my lord," said Lionardo, and went on reading Catullus.
"A poor lad has come in from the hills to tell that his lass has been carried off by Castracane. She was of your Highness's people."
Lionardo yawned. "There are maids to spare in Vellano."
"And your Highness offers them for Castracane's pleasure?" the chancellor sneered.
Lionardo looked at him over the top of Catullus. "You are a little handsome like that. I will see this Orpheus who has lost his Eurydice."
The chancellor went to the door and came back in an instant with a bare-legged lad. He was travel-stained and haggard. His sunken black eyes blazed. His hands twitched.
"This, your Highness, is Beppo, the goatherd of Monselice. He prays your Highness's aid. A lass that he loved, a maiden called Bianca, who lived at the inn---"
Lionardo put down Catullus. Lionardo was suddenly white. Bianca, the brave, gay little woman of the hillside! Bianca, with her clean joy in life. Bianca, in the fresh beauty of a maid's springtime! She had fallen to Castracane, to all the foulness of Hell.
"---who lived at the inn above, on the Noventa road, has been seized by Castracane. Beppo relates that Castracane has stayed at the inn more than once in this winter. The girl had waited upon him. Four days ago Castracane came again with some score of his men. When Beppo went to the inn at sunset Bianca's father lay dying, and Bianca was gone. Beppo asks your Highness's aid."
The chancellor ended and looked full in Lionardo's eyes. What light answer he feared, God knows. But Lionardo heaved himself out of his chair like a man very weary, and came to Beppo and put one hand on his shoulder, and with the other took Beppo's hand. "My poor lad!" he said, and his voice was hoarse---"my poor lad!" And at that Beppo gave a great sob and reeled. Lionardo held him up, and he moaned and wept on Lionardo's breast. "Beppo, lad, I will spend my last man to do you right. And I think we men of Vellano would gladly be spent for her sake---my poor lad!" Lionardo held him till the storm of grief was passed. At a sign the chancellor called the servants.
"You will tend this gentleman," said he.
"As you would myself," said Lionardo. Beppo was led away.
Lionardo faced sharply round. "My lord, you will send a herald to Castracane to demand this girl again. You will make that demand as stern as you can devise."
"It shall be stern enough," said the chancellor. "This will mean war, your Highness." He looked Lionardo between the eyes. "It is well for you that war has come." And on that he went out.
Lionardo looked after him and repeated his words mechanically, "Well for me that war has come---well for me?" That doubtless meant something, but the meaning was not of the clearest. For an instant he tried to think about himself in vain. He had lost interest in himself at last.
Bianca---Bianca haunted him. Her young body, her black eyes sparkling, her piquant, parted lips, stained with the cherries; he saw her again, the clear, gay voice spoke to him: "Cowards---to be afraid of life." Poor, poor maid! ... God help her!---if God yet could.... She laughed at her life, and was glad in it, and to this life had brought her---to the clutch of Castracane, to his lust, his torments. Foul, horrible stories of Castracane's pleasures surged through Lionardo's mind.... He saw Bianca suffer....
That night Lionardo sat late over his papers. And they were not poetical at all, but the muster-rolls of the militia of Vellano. When the Parliament of the Arts met next day, an usher appeared to inform them that his Highness was inspecting the battalions of the town.
But for Bianca herself, Lionardo knew too well no arms could now avail. The best a man could hope for her was that Castracane might have slain her quickly. War could not save her, nor Beppo. Beppo was strapped to his bed and raving, calling her name by day and night, talking love-talk sometimes, as if he held her on his heart, sometimes fighting fiercely with the air till his bonds were near breaking. Lionardo knew not whether to pray that the lad might die in his frenzy or be healed. But the frenzy passed, and the fever, and Beppo lay very still. They could hardly make him taste food or drink. He was feeble as a babe new born, and as dull as a babe to what they said or did before him. He seemed too weak even to feel.
Bianca and Beppo no power of man could save. The only happiness for them lay now beyond the gate of death. But man could avenge them. Lass and lad they were of Lionardo's people, Lionardo's children. Their pangs touched his honour as well as his heart. So Lionardo woke to life and threw all his force into the task of making ready for war. Men wondered at him. He was tireless, insatiable of work. He was consumed with zeal, and set others aflame. "We have a new Duke in Vellano," said the chancellor.
One evening when the chancellor and he rode in from watching the townsmen at drill, they found the secretary, Benedetto Perrotti, in the courtyard awaiting them. "Your Highness and my lord," said he, as they dismounted, "I have news. I have Castracane's answer."
Lionardo took him by the arm and hurried him in. The three men gathered close in the twilight in Lionardo's grey council chamber. "I am to premise, your Highness and my lord, that the herald reports Castracane received him very gently. Your Highness's message was delivered, to which Castracane thus replied: 'It is very true that certain men of mine have taken a maid of your master's, and in doing that have slain one of your master's men. For him I will pay blood-money such as his Highness, the duke, may demand. For the maid the matter is this: She loved one of my men and he her; so he, since her father would not let her go, took her by force, and in the fight her father was killed. But she loves my man well, and is content to be with him. If you doubt, Master Herald, you may ask of herself.' Then the herald reports that the girl Bianca was brought to him, and he asked her if she had come of her own will to Castagnaro, and she answered 'Yes;' then he asked her if it was her will to stay at Castagnaro, and again she answered 'Yes.' So, telling Castracane that he would make report to your Highness, the herald came away."
Lionardo and the chancellor were looking at each other. "Castracane does not want war," said the chancellor.
"There is some devil's trick here," said Lionardo.
Benedetto Perrotti went on: "I have to add, your Highness and my lord, that I, having received this story from the herald, went to the lad Beppo and related it."
"To Beppo? Fool!---fool!" Lionardo swore aloud.
"Go on!" said the chancellor.
"I told him, and his face became very dark, and he tried, I think, to strike me. But he was much too weak. Then he lay very still, breathing hard, and began to smile. And he died."
Lionardo turned away, hiding his face.
"I was indeed much grieved," said Benedetto Perrotti. But no one answered him.
After a while, "What like was this girl whom the herald saw?" the chancellor asked.
"'Little,' he says, 'pale-faced, with brown hair and black eyes.'"
"So are ten thousand girls in Italy.---Your Highness, we must find some one who knows this Bianca."
Lionardo turned. His face was flushed and his eyes shone. "I know her," he said.
Benedetto looked amazed; but the chancellor bowed, and asked calmly, "Is she, then, like this?"
"Ay! But that this be she, I doubt. And so, my lord, my herald goes back to Castagnaro to have speech with her again, and I go with him."
"Your Highness!" gasped Benedetto Perrotti. "You! But Castracane would know you---your---your---" he looked apologetically at Lionardo's large nose and red hair---"your countenance---is not easily mistaken."
"And if he does know me, I am still in the herald's company."
"By your Highness's leave, Castracane has never given cause to suppose that he respected a herald more than suited his purpose."
"It is true. But we see well enough that Castracan's purpose is not war."
"But by your---"
"This is my will," said Lionardo. Benedetto went slowly out. The chancellor stayed. Lionardo stared at that keen bronze face awhile, then he dropped his hand heavily on the chancellor's shoulder: "My friend---my friend, I must know the truth of it!" he said. "I see the danger Benedetto sees. But if I die, my cousin of Vicenza will make you a better duke. I must go. I have met the lass---she was a brave, gay little maid. If it is true that Castracane took her, I bear the blame. I am Duke of Vellano, and I have not kept my people safe. My private honour is touched. I may risk my life for that."
The chancellor bowed gravely. "But I cannot hold your Highness to blame for the girl's loss."
Lionardo smiled a little. "My friend, can your conscience absolve me?"
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THERE was silence in the palace at Zena. Women whispered together in corners.
"Our Lady stand by her!"
"St. Elizabeth give her ease!"
"Sure Our Lady will be kind to her, for she is such as Our Lady's self."
"Hush!---hush! Alack, and she all alone in her hour, poor soul!"
"Where is the sugar-plum count?"
"Where is she always? Pah! Talking to the saints!"
"He is more a saint than a man."
"And I wish he were with the saints."
"Hush!---hush! But God defend me from marrying a saint."
"You are in no danger, Maria!"
A cry rang through the stillness, and the two women drew together, clasping hands.
Francesco knelt in the twilight before his crucifix of ivory and gold. He was singing,---
" 'Omnis vigor atque virorHinc recessit: non admiror:Mors apparet in inspectuTotus pendens in defectuAttritus ægra macie."Sic affectus, sic despectus,Propter me sic interfectus,Peccatori tam indignoCum amoris in te signoAppare clara facie.'"
It was St. Bernard's hymn to the Crucified. Francesco did not know what the words meant. The morbid pathos of the tune appealed to him, and the dragging, melancholy metre. Moreover, his father in the spirit---the prior of the Dominicans---had told him that to sing it thrice a day upon his knees would bring him a larger portion of holiness. Francesco had so disciplined himself that now the repetition of words, the long endurance of a posture, numbed his reason and set his fancy running riot. He could make himself see strange visions of saints; he could make himself feel the pangs of the martyrs. There were incantations, ritual, that would produce ecstasy.
In an ecstasy he rose now and took a manuscript from before his crucifix, went to the window, and by the last of the light began to read. This was not Latin, but fluent Italian.
"Wherefore, O my son! if thou for thine own soul hast any care, reflect upon these things. Thy world is the world of flesh, and by flesh came sin, which is damnation. Inasmuch as thou art man, thou art food for hell. Inasmuch as thou art spirit, thou art like the angels. Strive then to put off thy manhood that thou mayest be saved. Hast thou a father? Thou art his son after the flesh. Care not for him. Hast thou a mother? She is thy mother after the flesh. Care not for her. Hast thou a wife? She is thy wife after the flesh. Care not for her. Hast thou children? They are thy children after the flesh. Care not for them. Strip thyself of the affections of the flesh, if by any means thou mayest attain unto holiness. For this holiness, whereunto manhood and womanhood are as dross and their affections are unclean, is thy true end and thy glory. Therefore despise that world in which thou livest and---"
"Your Highness---your Highness, a son is born to you!" a woman broke in, exultant. Francesco turned and stared at her over his paper. "A son is born to you! A noble boy, a---"
"Then one sinner more is alive," said Francesco, and turned away.
The woman paled suddenly; she took one swift step toward him, then bit her lip, and checked. But Francesco saw nothing of that. He did not even hear her go out.
He knelt down again and began to pray to his God. Not far away Beatrice, his wife, lay in her bed, white and weak and greatly happy, with her babe warm in the hollow of her arm. She, too, was praying---to another God.
While Francesco still knelt, the prior of the Dominicans came in. There was no sound, but for all his devotion, Francesco felt this presence at once. He rose from his knees; then knelt again for the Dominican's blessing.
"Is it well with you, my son?"
Francesco shook his head and beat his breast.
"I am of all sinners the vilest."
"By holy exercises and meditation and prayer even the vilest may attain to holiness."
"My father---my father, the world is all about me!" Francesco moaned.
"Cut yourself off from the world. Thus only can you attain to holiness." The monk spoke with unction.
"I am not worthy!" Francesco beat his breast again---"I am not worthy!"
"None are worthy," said the Dominican. "Yet all may come." And on that he went out.
Francesco knelt again, and again he sang that dolorous hymn and again, till all his mind was dazed. Then, walking like a blind man, he rose and went out.
It was a warm night of spring. The streets were loud and gay. Girls were dancing and singing together; here and there a boy stole one away, and her comrades laughed and called children's jokes after them. The lads were fighting tremendous tourneys with wooden lance and shield. The town surged and rang with the joy of life.
Francesco passed through it deaf and blind. He came to the dark wall of the Dominican monastery, and the lay brother opened to his knock. From the chapel came the wail of a chant. Francesco drew near and went in, away from the white stars and the clean air of night, to candle glare and the reek of incense. Red walls rose to dim, lofty arches above him; the incense vapour rolled thick; behind the altar, ghastly through the smoke and the flaming candles, was Christ in ivory, with wounds all red. The monks' white robes were smirched in the yellow light and the mist; their faces took odd, distorted form. But Francesco saw only the great crucifix, he heard only the poignant moan of music. It died to slow, deep notes. A hollow voice read for a while. Then shrill, wild, exultant, rose a hymn.
Francesco reeled forward up the chapel. "Ye saints---ye saints, I come!" he cried, and flung himself on his face before the altar.
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A SLIM young gentleman in dove-coloured silk, a young gentleman with the round face of a cherub, sat on a black stallion. Beside him a sturdy fellow stood and roared orders. Over the turf before them some hundreds of pikemen and arquebusiers were forming themselves into squares. They appeared to do it with some speed, but the young gentleman, smiling amiably, tapped his companion on the shoulder. "My dear Gian," said he, "pray let us remember that life is short."
The man saluted and hurled some sulphurous criticism at his squares. Then they were broken up, drawn into line, flung into column, marched on, marched back and formed again into squares. It was done even more quickly than the first time. But the young gentleman yawned. "I fear we shall all be very late for dinner, Gian," said he.
Gian saluted and hurled more criticism. The thing was done all over again, and now with wonderful speed. The squares were just formed, Gian just looking up for praise, when the young gentleman's voice rang suddenly clear. It had hardly died before each square was split into two and the front was doubled in length. Another order, and four squares were massed together and flung forward on the right. The young gentleman did not smile at all. He brought them back into line. "You have done well," he said gravely, and saluted them and rode off.
Now that was on the pastures above Sestola, and the young gentleman was Bernardo Bruni, Squarcia's lieutenant, who would have been a great general if he had not preferred to be an indifferent painter; but every man he ever knew seems to have loved him.
So Squarcia and he trained their men. Squarcia's fights were fought with good tools. "My men, by Pompey!" said Squarcia once to the Pope---"my men are craftsmen! Twenty bunglers are not a match for one of them. If there were thirty thousand of them in Christendom, I would walk over the Grand Turk and make the Cham of Tartary your Holiness's acolyte, and join hands with Prester John in the Indies. But there are not thirty thousand, nor the half. And I shall not live long enough to make them." To which his Holiness gravely, "God saw fit not to make you God. Perhaps he knew best, sir."
But if there was not a half, nor, indeed, a fourth of thirty thousand gathered about Sestola, there were yet many. The pastures were dotted thick with tents and rough wooden huts. Bernardo Bruni rode among them, and men sprang up from cooking, from scouring their arms and themselves, to salute as he passed. A farmhouse stood on a little knoll above the huts, and from it flaunted Squarcia's banner, the red rose gay in the clear spring sunshine. There were a score or two of men, some mounted, some on foot, waiting about the door, and Bernardo Bruni, as he rode up, saw that the horsemen wore the red coats and black breastplates of Castracane. He went in, smiling; went to his own room.
Now Bernardo began to enjoy himself. He wrapped himself in a long gown; he took the curtain from his easel; he contemplated with intense care a round wooden panel on which, half in charcoal and half in paint, appeared the Virgin and St. John Baptist. The Virgin was more than a little like himself. St. John was exceedingly like Squarcia. Bernardo began to paint. While he attended to St. John's girdle, a long, rolling peal of laughter shook the house. Something had amused Squarcia.
Bernardo went to the window, and saw Castracane's men riding away. The grim uniforms of red and black wound their way through the camp, and as they passed, Squarcia's men, lounging about in disarray, half-naked some, looked up at them and grinned. Bernardo was pleased with the colour and life of the picture. While still he looked, there broke from Squarcia's room the roar of a bull; and the matter of it was oaths. Squarcia expressed surprise.
Bernardo Bruni turned from the window, smiling, and went back to his painting. But the voice roared on, and there was a fiercer note in it. Bernardo left his painting. For in these rare rages of his Squarcia had been mad.
Squarcia sat roaring out curses, and his little eyes were red. He swayed to and fro, and beat on the table with his fists. A soldier stood before him, waiting. Bernardo Bruni came in, round-faced and calm. "What displeases you, sir?" he asked, and sat down. Squarcia checked suddenly and bit his lip till the blood flowed on to his beard. "Tell it again!" he growled to the soldier, and shook himself out of his chair and walked up and down with heavy, thudding steps.
You remember that long before, Squarcia had set two of his scouts to watch Bianca's inn. Now this soldier told Bernardo Bruni how, having heard nothing of these two for weeks, he and his fellows had gone to seek them, and found their bodies, vulture torn, on the hillside; how they had learnt that Castracane had been there and stolen Bianca away and slain her father. Bernardo Bruni crossed himself and said a small prayer softly. "They died well," he said. And then he turned and looked curiously at Squarcia. He did not understand this passion of rage. The thing was sad enough, and Bernardo had a clean man's heart in him, but such things were to be looked for from Castracane.
Squarcia tramped fiercely to and fro, and the blood-clots lay upon his beard. He flung words over his shoulder at Bernardo. "I knew her. She was like a spring morning. And that fiend!---that fiend!" He halted suddenly, and stood over Bernardo. "I laughed. Do you know why I laughed? He sent those devil's angels of his to ask that I should enter his service. I! Squarcia! Squarcia serve Castracane! I said I would consider the honour. I laughed. Now, by God, I curse him! This Beelzebub's cause for me to fight in! Me!"
And now Bernardo's smooth brow was lowering too. He, too, set a curse on Castracane. "Join him? What! When the wolf has eaten our men? I would flay him for asking us." The condottiere's honour was touched.
Squarcia began to tramp up and down. "Go away, Bernardo! I want to be alone. Do not be afraid! I shall not go mad! I am going to think."
They say that Squarcia thought on his knees.
When Bernardo saw him again in the evening he was entirely master of himself. "Bernardo," said he, "I shall go and see this child of lamentation, who is Duke of Vellano. Bianca was his subject. And if he is ever to be a man, it is high time that he began."
So the next morning off went Squarcia with a little guard of a score, and Bernardo Bruni was left teaching the arquebusiers in the new formation not to shoot through the pikemen's hair, which, he remarked, caused the pikemen to think of death more often than becomes a soldier.
The herald of Vellano with his company met Squarcia and his. Squarcia, watching them keenly as they passed, did not miss Lionardo's long limbs and red hair. "Ho, my lord duke, six words in your ear!" he cried, reining round. Lionardo drew out from the rest. "You recall an inn where we met? You recall a lass, Bianca? She was a girl of Vellano. You are Duke of Vellano. She has been carried off by Castracane."
Lionardo bowed. "You know no more?"
"More?" Squarcia supplied an oath. "I know Castracane!"
Lionardo looked at him with grave, dull eyes. "Sir, you, too, were her friend;" he held out his hand.
But Squarcia brushed it away. "Oh, curse your play-acting!"
"Believe me," said Lionardo, "I am not acting now!" and there was a ring in his voice new to Squarcia.
"Then what are you doing?" Lionardo told him how the herald had been to Castracane already. "Oh, you have done something, indeed!" Squarcia, sneered. He dealt little in heralds.
Lionardo went on with his story:---
"Castracane answered that his men had indeed carried off the girl, but that she came of her own will; she was married to one of them, and had no wish to leave him. He showed the herald a girl who at least was like Bianca, and she said that this was true---she was happy." Squarcia grunted. "What say you of that, sir?"
"I say---that if Bianca is happy in Castracane's castle, she will not be happy long;" but he pulled his beard and looked puzzled, then stared round at Lionardo. "What now?"
"Now my herald goes back to Castracane again, and I go with him. I shall know whether this girl who looks happy is our Bianca or not."
And Squarcia stared with all his eyes. "You? You are going into Castracane's own den?"
"As you see."
"Then you are a fool!"
"I agree."
Suddenly Squarcia let a great laugh out of himself. "But, by Pompey! you are a fool I like. Messer Lionardo, if the wolf does spring, you will be none the worse of my back behind you. Let me be a fool too."
"I thank you; but, sir, this is my work."
"Messer Lionardo," said Squarcia, "I, too, was her friend," and now he held out his hand.
Lionardo smiled a little as he gripped it. "A fool and a fool," he said.
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Two of Squarcia's men were gone back to Bernardo Bruni with a message. The rest had stripped Squarcia's red rose badge from arm and helm and joined themselves to the company of the herald and Lionardo.
On a clear morning of the early spring they came up the valley to the castle of Castagnaro. High above and afar stood the white mountain masses, white far below their crests, for the winter snow lay on them still. Between the snow and the valley were dark-grey pinewoods and sparkling green pasture, then the paler, younger colour of budding tree and vine. Sentinel over the valley, high on a spur of rock jutting from the eastern hills, stood the castle of Castagnaro, a dark mass growing into a dozen narrhaow towers. From the topmost flaunted the red-wolf banner.
They were riding double file, Lionardo and Squarcia side by side, and now they could pick out faces on the castle towers, and the glint of arms; now, with the castle sheer above them, they turned to the hillside and climbed the zigzag road. Then a wave of sound swept down the valley; the sound of a squadron on march. Lionardo looked at Squarcia. That sound might mean a squadron of Castracane's men coming to cut them off. "In for a kiss, in for a hug," quoth Squarcia, and led on. So they came to the oaken, iron-studded door of the castle, and the herald took the horn and blew it. Then a shutter opened and a face looked out, and the herald of the Most Illustrious Lionardo, Duke of Vellano, Vicar of the Holy Roman Empire, prayed speech with his Excellency Jacopo Castracane, called Marquis of Frido. The shutter closed.
After a while the great door swung back, and under the archway they passed to a paved courtyard. A few grooms waited to take their horses, but there was no guard, no men with arms at all. The place was very still. A fat man with a chain about his neck and a black wand in his hand came to usher them in; one man only. They followed him over the stones with jingling spurs.
The hall was a treasury. From arches of peach-coloured stone at either end hung tapestry of pink and gold and blue and white; here was the shepherd Paris with his three goddesses; there Zeus and Ganymede; here Aphrodite in Anchises' arms; Danaë with her babe, and chained Andromeda, the young Apollo and Hylas and Tithonus on Aurora's bosom---all the fair forms of Greek fancy were wrought in splendid, voluptuous beauty. Where the fire blazed on a marble hearth were chairs of silver, with blood-red cushions, and tables that bore nymphs and dryads and fauns and satyrs cast silver and gold. Down either side stood statues, noble work of the early world, men and women snow-white against the mellow walls.
There on the daïs, a blotch of scarlet, Jacopo Castracane.
Castracane sat huddled together, his head thrust forward, and he was horrible to see. His head was quite bald, and his face. His pale eyes had neither lashes nor brows, and his eyelids flickered incessantly. A narrow, jutting forehead, hollow cheeks, and a long, hooked nose were all of a livid pallor. Limbs and body all cramped together, all scarlet.
A page, a small, thin child, lay on his belly on the floor within reach of Castracane's foot.
The herald, wearing his hat, tramped up the hall behind the usher, and the others followed with bare heads.
"From my master, the Most Illustrious Lionardo, Duke of Vellano, Vicar of the Holy Roman Empire, to your Excellency, greeting!" The herald bowed, and Castracane put up his hand in answer. The herald's escort were standing in column behind him. Castracane waved to them petulantly to form a line. There was some stumbling.
"By Venus, gentlemen, you are very shy!" said Castracane; but there was no mirth in his tone. They made line at last, and now each man of them was under Castracane's eyes. Squarcia and his men, twenty bundles in twenty cloaks, stood carelessly at their ease. Lionardo was taller than they and stiffer. Castracane looked at each, but he made no sign. His eyelids flickered, his face was livid still.
The herald went on: "In the matter of one Bianca, a woman of Monselice, in my master's dominion, a woman within my master's right, seized by your Excellency, I am charged to have speech with her."
"Your master seems to want that woman," said Castracane. "But she enjoys herself so much that I fear he will never enjoy her."
"I claim to have speech with her."
Then, after a moment's silence: "Indeed, Sir Herald, you shall!" Castracane's lips curled back from his teeth. "You shall all have speech with her." He drew the usher to him by the sleeve and spoke into the man's ear. Then the usher went out. Castracane looked along the line again. "Come, my dear friends, till I can take you to her, let me entertain you." He stirred the page with his foot. "Wine, dog!" he said in a new, harsh tone, and the child scrambled up and ran to a carved buffet. Castracane stood up---a man of middle height, very lean---came down from the daïs and took the herald with one arm, Lionardo with the other. But that he knew Lionardo, there was no sign at all. He led them to his statuary. And now he talked with something like feeling in his voice. They were to mark the grandeur of that deep bosom, the pure lines of those lips. This was too luscious to be beautiful. That was Greek of the best age. That boy's budding strength---
The page came tottering under a great salver of wine and wine-cups. To Squarcia, that huddled mass of cloak, he went first. Squarcia was too old a condottiere to drink Castracane's wine. As he turned away, the page thrust a pitiful little face forward over the salver and whispered something.
The faint sound caught Castracane's ear. He whirled round; he dashed the child to the ground. Salver and glass clashed and crashed. He caught the child up and flung him upon the fire, and held him down on the flames with a chair. Through one instant of horror all drew away, and Castracane stood alone, a lean, scarlet form, with a grin on his livid face; and the child's little limbs writhed, and he shrieked piteously. Then Lionardo thrust the fiend away, and Squarcia snatched the child. Castracane laughed loud. "I thought that little jest would please you. We will continue it later. The whelp, you see, is sure of hell, and I try to train him for it." He turned mirthless again on the child. "Go lie down, whelp!" And the child reeled away and flung himself down again on his belly on the daïs. Castracane looked round at them all and grinned.
Then the herald cried: "Do you deny my errand? Shall I not have speech with this woman?"
Castracane's lips hid his teeth again. "Come and speak with her," he said.
Out of the hall he led them, and by an ill-lit passage into an inner court. Here was no stillness, but the growling, the trampling of beasts. There were cages round the walls where leopards prowled. From a great pit in the middle of the court came the yelping of wolves.
Castracane strode out into the midst; but the herald and Lionardo and the rest hung back, looking about them, amazed. Then Castracane grinned at them. "O my Lord Duke of Vellano," he cried, "you are modest, you are shy! But you do me much honour to come to my poor house. And I will do you honour too. You wished to see your woman. See her, now!" He pointed with fleshless hand through the spring sunlight to a cage where a yellow leopard whined.
There on the greasy floor lay a woman's bones.
Lionardo stood still as a statue, and cold. The brave, gay little maid! Her young beauty, her waking love, her clean joy in life---there lay the end of them all. The brave, gay little maid!
Castracane, the lean, scarlet form in the sunlight, watched him and laughed. "You see her, my lord duke, you see her! Now go speak with her." He whistled sharply. "Go speak with her---in hell!" His soldiers came pouring into the courtyard, a throng of black breastplates and red limbs.
But as he whistled, Squarcia cried an order. Squarcia's men of the escort whirled off their cloaks and sprang forward, mail and swords agleam. In a moment Lionardo found himself and the herald inside a diamond of men. The whole score of them roared Squarcia's war-cry, the cry of fifty victories, "Squarcia!---Squarcia!---Squarcia, and strike home!" and hurled themselves at the dark corridor by which they had come.
Castracane's men were across it, but the diamond of old soldiers broke in among them, and cursing, stabbing, pushing, came tumbling through with them into the splendid hall.
As they came, there was a roar like a thunder-clap, and a din in the outer court.
The whole host of Castracane's men rushed after Squarcia's few, surged about them in the hall, shut them in on all sides. But the diamond kept its shape, and cut steadily, swiftly, towards the door. In the storm of fight, white nymphs and goddesses crashed down and were shattered, rare work of gold and silver was trampled under foot. Castracane, struggling in through the press, saw the ruin and shrieked curses and beat his men with his sword.
Squarcia's laugh roared out above the infernal din. Sheep---sheep driven to the butcher! Squarcia!---Squarcia!---Squarcia, and strike home!"
So the diamond fought its way down the hall, and now from the outer court came an answering cry, "Squarcia!---Squarcia! We strike home!"
In amaze, Castracane's men wavered. Squarcia's close-formed diamond went on at a stumbling run. It broke clear to the door, it was all but out when Lionardo felt some one catch at his legs. He was jerked on again before he could stop. But he saw the little page and heard the child cry shrill, "Oh, take me!---take me too!" Squarcia, stumbling backward against him thrust down a bloody hand and tossed the child up into the air for Lionardo to catch. Then, as the diamond was bursting through the door, Squarcia hurled himself away from it and slashed that lovely tapestry from Aurora's white breast to the Olympian brow of Zeus. "Squarcia!---Squarcia! I strike home!" he roared, and sprang after his men.
Now in the outer court they fell suddenly into the midst of another fight. Here were their own comrades with the red rose badge on bright helm and mail storming in on Castracane's black garrison. Somehow, from somewhere, Squarcia had brought a regiment of his veterans in aid. Lionardo, looking for the power that worked this miracle, saw on a horse-block by the gate Bernardo Bruni, who watched the fight, smiling and calm. His hands played with a red rose. Toward him, out of the fight, came the diamond. Bernardo Bruni stooped and spoke to a man below him. An order ran from rank to rank.
Now men in the bright mail fell swiftly back to the gateway and through the shattered gate and out. Lionardo, with his burden, the child, was hurried along between two of them. They had him out; they took the child from him; they found horses for him and themselves; they would have hurried him off. "I stay for my friends!" said Lionardo.
"Rein out of my way and be damned!" a man howled in his ear. He drew off to the very edge of the crag.
For there was no room for idlers. Up the winding road came a stream of horses, one rider to every four. The men who fell out of the fight filled the vacant saddles. Down the road went a stream of mounted men. All was done without haste, without a pause, swiftly, silently. From the courtyard rose the din of the fight. Here all was order and peace.
Peering through the broken gate, Lionardo could see that the black and red covered all the court. Few of Squarcia's men were left, Squarcia himself and Bernardo Bruni, but with them very few. Castracane had a hundred to one, but ninety-nine of his hundred were useless, for Squarcia's men were now within the narrow gateway, and though Castracane had had a million of men, the last of the fight must be man to man.
The stream of horses and horsemen checked. A score of mounted men were drawn up in double rank, facing the castle. Bernardo Bruni came delicately through the broken gate, still smiling, still playing with his rose. He sprang on his horse and sat with the others, waiting. Then Squarcia came panting and spattered with blood. He wrung the sweat out of his beard and heaved himself up to the saddle of a big-boned roan and jogged off. Lionardo followed him slowly, turning back in the saddle to watch.
The last men broke out and ran like rabbits. After them, swift as the shattered timbers gave the chance, poured Castracane's men. But the waiting horsemen spurred in among them, slashing at them, riding them down, shouldering them off the edges of the crag; then, having stayed the rush one needed moment, turned themselves and rode off down the hill.
Bernardo Bruni's gay voice rang clear: "We come again, Jacopo!---we come again! Squarcia!---Squarcia! We strike home!"
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"YOUR Highness," said the herald, "it was contrary to the laws of God and man, the order of chivalry, and the rights of a herald."
"That is so," said Lionardo. "Good-night." The herald had been making the same statement for half an hour.
Night had fallen, and they lay in bivouac on the hills. Lionardo sat wrapped in his cloak before a flaming, fragrant fire of pine. Below him, above him, was black darkness, and the chill of the mountain snows made the air sharp. A dull champ and rustle came from the horse lines; voices murmured here and there in the darkness; from the distance came a torrent's roar. Squarcia and Bernardo Bruni came up, arm-in-arm, and dropped down beside him in the firelight. "Well, Messer Lionardo," quoth Squarcia, "fools we were!" Lionardo did not answer. The flickering light fell on a face gloomy and sad. "Oh, the devil!" cried Squarcia, clapping him on the shoulder; "are you still wishing to be dead?"
Lionardo shuddered. He turned full upon Squarcia. "You remember? Yes, you remember. I---I said that to Bianca. And she found it so good to be alive. Then this---this devilry comes upon her. And I---my God!---I am here unhurt."
"She is happy now," said Squarcia.
"I do nothing"---Lionardo's voice rose and fell unsteadily---"I do nothing. I play with life. How many men have bled to save me to-day? And I have not struck one blow. Ah, God! do you see the shame of it? Others suffer for me---always others." The man shook in a sob.
There was silence awhile. Squarcia's hand still lay on Lionardo's shoulder and gripped hard. Then Bernardo Bruni said gently: "Sir, we see very well that it is not only others who suffer in this trouble. Take the word of a man who has liked you little enough till to-day---you blame yourself more than justly."
Squarcia's grip slackened, but his hand lay still. He spoke carelessly now: "Well, Messer Lionardo, fools we were, and a fool got us out. That is to say, Bernardo---who is so much a fool that he wants to be a painter."
"I know I can fight," said Bernardo plaintively. "I know I cannot paint. That is why painting is more amusing. I think I am very reasonable. And fighting is so untidy."
Squarcia chuckled. "So, by Pompey! is Castracane's hall."
Bernardo sighed. "You always make such a mess. Now, my part of this little bickering was neat as a maiden's chamber." He glanced at Lionardo, and then talked to him without looking at him---a man trying to check another man's emotion. And Lionardo understood very well. "You must know, sir, this hairy rose"---he nudged Squarcia's capacious ribs---"bade me follow him with all our horse to Castagnaro. When I heard his war-cry, I was to come in after him. I conceived that he was mad; but as he is then most interesting, I followed. How I, having as yet no wings, was to get into the castle I did not immediately see. But I remembered that our bald friend Castracane had kindly asked us to be his servants. To which we providently replied that we would consider of the honour. Behold me, then, Squarcia's lieutenant, with Squarcia's answer, knocking at the door. Faith! I do not know that I have ever been more politely answered. And I was very polite myself. There was some edifying conversation at that gate. During which I was edging up one of Squarcia's sausages---oh, you do not know what they are!---these new things that shoot with powder-things made of iron, very like a sausage. We carry them slung between four horses, like my lady in her litter. Well, while I was saying how bright the sun shone, we brought it up---horses among horses, who should care?---we dropped it out of its slings, and, in fine, we sent a shot through the gate and went after it ourselves. You saw the rest. But I do not myself like the sausages. They stink in no gentlemanly manner."
No one took up the talk. The murmurs of the camp, the roar of the hurrying water, held the air. Then Lionardo said suddenly, "Thank you," and was silent again. At last he turned to face them both. "Gentlemen, you have stood by me well to-day. Will you stand by me to the end?"
Squarcia nodded. There in the night, over the dying fire, in silence they struck hands.
- - - - - -
Lionardo woke with a shiver. The night had paled. He raised himself on his elbow. High overhead the mountain peaks were lemon-yellow in the first of the dawn. Gloom lingered in the valley still.
"Oh, I am glad you are awake!" Bernardo Bruni's clear voice spoke beside him. "I always want to kill people whom I see asleep. They take so little interest in me. Do not look as if you were going to sleep again, because you are not. I am going on talking. I ought to be awake, and I am awake---which is humiliating. But then I ought also to be talking to the quartermaster; and as you are not at all like a quartermaster, I preserve my self-respect. Do not look at me as if I were a bad dream, because you are awake. You are much more awake than you suppose. Do you know many quartermasters? They are all very much in earnest, and they all have thick noses. Therefore, they are very trying on an empty stomach." Bernardo yawned and sat up. Now the mountain peaks were all golden, blent with golden clouds. Now the first shafts of the sun shot down to the valley and waked the colours of pasture and tree, the gleam of the water. "Now what," said Bernardo plaintively, "is the good of that? I have to go and look at the quartermaster." So he went; and the bugles waked the bivouac to life.
Squarcia sat up, grunted, rubbed his eyes. "Are you for water, Messer Lionardo?" he asked, and took Lionardo off to bathe in the torrent.
Glowing and keen they came back. All were busy now, tending horses, scouring arms. Bernardo Bruni joined them, nodding to Lionardo. Beside the red rose in his helmet he had already a sprig of larch---the badge of Vellano. "Some genius," said he, "has been a-fishing and---"
A quaint little figure came running---Castracane's page. He fell on his knees before Squarcia. "My lord, I---I pray your pardon!" he said tremulously; "I have but now waked."
"O happy child!" sighed Bernardo.
Squarcia jerked the child to his feet. Well, and why should I care if you were sleeping still?"
"I---I thought, my lord, that I should have to go everywhere you went."
"Oh! Castracane made you go everywhere with him, did he?"
The child hung his head. "Yes, my lord!" he muttered.
"Then, my son, you must have been in some most improper places," said Bernardo Bruni.
The child blushed dark. He fell a little behind and followed them with hanging head and short steps, till Squarcia turned and put a great hairy hand inside the thin arm and drew him on.
Cloaks were spread for them and they sat, and Bernardo cried to the cook. Squarcia plucked out a silver case, and took needle and thread and began to sew up a cut in his doublet. He had hardly drawn two clumsy stitches before the child leaned forward: "Oh, let. me!---please let me!" and his voice was pathetically eager.
"Eh?" Squarcia, needle uplifted, stared at him. "If you want to be sewing, little man, you had best mend your own clothes," and he jerked his head at the child's doublet, which, scorched by the fire, was now all holes, revealing generous patches of shirt and arm.
The child blushed again, and drew his arms across his breast.
Bernardo Bruni, who was looking at him curiously, took out a case of his own and held up another needle and thread. "Here, my son!" said he. The child took them eagerly, held them up to the light, moved the needle to the thread. "My dear boy," said Bernardo Bruni, "are you quite sure you are a boy?"
And at that the child dropped needle and thread and hid her face in her hands.
Squarcia ran his needle into himself, swore, and turned round and stared. "Well, you make a better lass than a lad," he said. "Lass or lad, child, you are safe in Squarcia's camp." But she still hid her face. Bernardo Bruni came and wrapped a cloak about her. After a while she took her hands away and looked at them timidly through tears. Suddenly the men found beauty in her little quaint face.
Breakfast came, fresh fish smoking on trenchers of bread, with wine and snow-water. The girl could hardly eat for tears. Kindness was strange; stranger yet the common courtesies of men to a woman. Bernardo Bruni, always adequate to circumstances, made steady conversation with Squarcia; but Lionardo, when he could, was watching the girl's face. It was small, but square and full, with little, deep-cut features, pink and white, blue eyes, and black curls. Lionardo's brow wrinkled. "Little one," he said gently, at last---"little one, did you ever hear that you were very like the Castiglioni?"
The girl threw up her arm as if she would ward off a blow, and cowered down beside Squarcia; then came to herself again. "He---he always struck me when he said my name," she said, and her lips quivered. "You see, I am Cecilia da Castiglione---"
"Cecilia!" Lionardo cried. "Surely she should be older than you!"
"Oh, thank God, thank God, I look a child! ... I have been afraid he would remember I am a woman now.... Thank God!---thank God! ... How long is it since he stormed Castagnaro? I do not know about time. It seems so long!---so long!"
"It is eight years," said Lionardo.
"Eight? Only eight? Then I am seventeen, I think. Ah, it seems so long! ... And what I have seen!---what I have seen! ... When he stormed Castagnaro, when he---he killed---all the men---he found me, and he---he stripped me and put me into boy's clothes. He said he would have use for me yet," she shuddered. "And since---since-whatever he did, I have been with him---oh, God help me!---what I have seen!"
Each man looked away from her. To make a child live amid horrors of lust and cruelty---it was like Castracane. They saw the full devilry of it. She was heiress to the realm he had stolen. He did not kill her; that was too merciful for him; he had made her know all loathsome sin before ever she came to womanhood.... Still---still she was pure. That was God's miracle.... After a while: "Lady," said Lionardo gently, "this is a new life now. Will you not think of that?"
She looked through her tears from one to the other. I have never known men like you, you know," she said. "You seem to feel as I feel. I did not know men could be like that.... Oh, you are not cheating me!---swear that you are not cheating me!"
Lionardo bared his head and took her hand. "I am Lionardo da Feltre, Duke of Vellano. I swear, by the honour of God, that I will be true man to you and fight your cause till you are come to your own!"
Squarcia took her hand from Lionardo. "I am Squarcia. So I swear!"
Bernardo Bruni took it in his turn. "I am Bernardo Bruni. I swear my faith to Cecilia da Castiglione, Marchioness of Frido!"
And then the girl began to sob. "You mean it ... yes, I know you mean it ... some one to trust at last---at last ... now.... now, please let me be alone. I have not been alone since he took me---never, never alone."
The three went away together. None of them spoke for a long while. Then Bernardo Bruni gave a great sigh. "This little war is going to please me," said he.
While they paced up and down an officer came up and saluted. "The pickets, sir, have sent in a monk, a Dominican, who asked if they were Castracane's men. They said Yes,' and he said that he wished to see Castracane."
"How bad taste in the holy father!" said Bernardo. "Bring him!" The monk, a sturdy fellow with a dull, dogged face, was brought. "Well, my father, you wish to see Castracane---behold him!" said Bernardo, pointing to Squarcia.
The monk's eyes swelled. "Sir---sir---this is some jest! Castracane has no hair on his face."
"The light of your presence, my father, has made it sprout. But you seem to know more of Castracane than befits a holy man. What do you want with him?"
"Sir, that is no affair of yours."
"I assure you, my father, it is at this moment very much my affair. What have you to do with Castracane?"
"My son," said the monk solemnly, "it is a matter touching my order."
"I do not think you lie well," said Bernardo. "Tell me, what is your errand?"
"I am sworn not to speak."
"The value of your oath we may test later.---See if he has anything on him, Giuseppe." The four soldiers standing by gathered close about the monk, purposeful. "My children!---my children!" he cried, "will you condemn yourselves to everlasting fire? I am of the holy order of---" The rest was lost as they set about him.
In a moment one handed Bernardo a letter.
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"I AM a truly admirable person," said Bernardo Bruni. "I can always find the best of reasons for doing what I want." What he wanted to do at the moment was to paint a little corner of woodland where the gay green of chestnut and walnut mingled with the grey of the olives and a stream sparkled orange and red over the rocks. What he ought to have been doing (if you would judge austerely) was riding into Vellano to take up the command of Lionardo's militia. What he was doing (as you doubtless infer) was painting.
This was his excellent reason: to push on hastily into Vellano clearly showed an indecent eagerness for the office, which would derogate from his dignity as general, and thus weaken his grip on the men. So he sent the herald on to Vellano with Lionardo's letter, and a message that if Vellano was prepared to receive him it should send him an escort to Robecca.
And thus for high reasons of policy Bernardo Bruni sat in the shade and painted the sunlight on leaf and water.
While he painted, a girl came into the picture. About a little dainty form clung a grey-green dress. She made a harmonious note. Bernardo approved. She sat down by the brook and took off her shoes and stockings and hung white feet in the swift red water. Bernardo began to paint swiftly. There was a lark singing somewhere that helped.
She rose suddenly. "How wholly heartless!" said Bernardo. So then she turned and saw the canvas and the grey velvet and the round cherub's face behind it.
"Am I in the way?" said she, standing barefoot on the mossy turf.
Bernardo made with his brush a gesture of despair. "You were about to be made immortal, sitting down. But you stood up. Learn from this the folly of exertion."
"Oh! were you painting me?" She sped over the turf to his easel. Close to Bernardo's round face came another round one. But this was milk-white, and the full lips were like raspberries and the little nose was tilted at the tip. There were masses of glossy brown hair under her hat. Bernardo Bruni was gratified. But she was looking at his picture. "Oh, there is very little of me!" she said, and reproachful brown eyes met his.
"I confess that I had not kept a place for you. But"---his eyes also were reproachful---"you did not tell me you were coming."
A delectable dimple came in one white cheek. "I did not know I was coming till I came. And, pray, where have I come to?"
"To a scrap of paradise four miles from Robecca."
"Four miles? Oh! And I am bitterly hungry!"
"You behold in me," said Bernardo modestly, "a Godsend." He produced from the shade of the trees a plump basket, and went off to take a bottle of wine from the brook.
She sat on the turf tucking her little bare feet under her; and Bernardo cut pasty for her with a silver knife, and tempered the wine for her with cold, sparkling water in a silver cup, and gave her a napkin of white silk.
"Your paradise is well furnished, sir," said she with her dimple.
"I have forgotten to provide the serpent," said Bernardo sadly.
"Ah, you did not know that I was coming!" she laughed.
"Adam must have been a little surprised by Eve."
"I wonder if she liked him?"
"From her each woman has learned to think her lover the most wonderful man in the world."
"But it was much easier for Eve."
"I dislike them. They have won fame so cheaply. There was no merit in being Adam, and yet his name will never be forgotten. I could have fallen quite as gracefully as he; but no one will remember me."
She laughed deliciously. "Do you quite know that we are talking nonsense?"
"How sane we are! I think only mad people can be always sensible. Or people who are always sensible go mad. I do not want to be mad, because one is then such a trial to others."
"I am a trial to others."
"That," said Bernardo, looking at the dainty face---"that is certainly because they are mad."
"Did you ever run away?"
"Often."
"Why?"
"In order to come back." And Bernardo laughed, thinking of certain pleasant battles.
"Oh, this is not nonsense now!" she cried. Most serious eyes met his. "I have run away! I have run away from a husband!"
"You are not original."
"Oh, I have not married him yet! I ran away before!"
"It seems premature; but doubtless the gentleman deserved it."
"If you knew him!" The dainty little face twisted itself into an expression of grotesque solemnity. "He is like that. He is one of your people who are always sensible. I do not know if he is mad; but I am sure I should be if I were his wife."
"What excuse has this person for presuming to think himself worthy you?"
"My father. My father is Benedetto Perrotti, who is secretary to the Duke of Vellano, and of course he is rather serious too. He says I could make no better marriage in Vellano---'make a good marriage,' as if it were a bargain! And I am sure this husband would be a very bad bargain! And I do not want to make a marriage at all. I told them all that---"
"The serious husband? How good for him!"
"Yes; but the creature only smiled and made me a compliment on my modesty." She blushed a little. "You know, he thinks I am very quiet and good." Bernardo bit his lip on a giggle. "That is why he --- he --- he likes me. They would not understand that I thought him a fool. And I am sure I did my best to show it. They thought I was shy. Father said, 'Little maids, little maids!' and pinched my cheek, and he --- he said he would have me so --- it was better than frowardness. And they fixed the day for my marriage. So I have run away. I thought that would show him I did not want him."
"Unless the creature is singularly dense," Bernardo admitted, "he might infer that. Who is he?"
"Gabbriello Pallavicini, the son of the chamberlain. He is very good, and just like a sheep. And if I talk nonsense he pats my head and calls me 'good child.'"
"I do not wonder that you ran away," said Bernardo. "But, lady, where will you run to?"
"Oh, I have six---seven ducats! See! And---"
Through the wood broke a man, flushed and panting. He looked round him fiercely. At last he saw them sitting in the shade. "Candida!" he cried. "Candida! You baggage!" and rushed at them.
Bernardo was on his feet in a bound. "Bridle your tongue, sir, if you care for your life!" he cried.
"You foul rogue!" the man roared, and rushed at him, sword flashing.
Bernardo's sword lay by his easel. But unarmed he stood fast. As the man charged at him he swerved swift from the thrust and hurled himself at the hilt. In an instant he had wrenched the blade away; he sprang back, getting his grip of it; he shot a thrust through the man's sword arm. Then most politely, after the manner of a second in a duel, he offered the man his sword again. "It is better to fight fair," said he. "Try, some day."
The man, who was now white-faced, muttered to himself and plucked at his sleeve where the blood was pouring. The girl ran to him. "O Benedetto, let me!" Then reproachfully over her shoulder to Bernardo, "It is my brother."
"Oh, I present my regrets!" Bernardo let the bloody sword swing between finger and thumb and came nearer. "My dear sir, how could I have guessed it? You spoke to her so kindly."
"Who are you?" the man growled.
"I am certainly not her brother," said Bernardo.---"O lady, by your leave!" He dropped the sword and stopped her efforts to bind up the wound. "Your intention is admirable, but your method is deplorable." His long, skilful fingers moved about the arm. "Go, get me those napkins!"
"Sir---sir---I do not understand you!" the wounded Benedetto protested.
"Then you are in the fashion." Bernardo took the napkins and began to make a bandage. "I am by nature orderly. Therefore we conclude a neat fight and a neat wound by a neat bandage. Also, I do not judge hastily. Else might I have called you a foul-minded fool. But no! Eh?"
A horseman had broken through the wood and spurred toward them. He reined up and saluted Bernardo. "An escort has come from Vellano, sir."
"Where is it?"
"It is trying to get through the wood, sir."
And indeed the sound of crashing branches made it certain that something large was coming through the wood. "The Goths! The Vandals!" cried Bernardo. "My beautiful trees!---Turn those quadrupeds back, Carlo. Halt them on the road!" Off went Carlo, and was soon heard in exhortation. Bernardo wound up the bandage.
"For you, sir?" his patient was stammering. "An escort from Vellano for you? You must be the General Bernardo Bruni!"
"That is, of course, more surprising to you than me," said Bernardo, and went off to his sword and his easel. Benedetto, the wounded, who was not perhaps the wisest man in the world, gaped at him.
Candida stole after him softly, and "Sir," said she, "what am I to do?"
Bernardo, buckling his sword, looked down at the little white feet, that vanished as he looked. "I think," said Bernardo, "you had better put on your stockings."
She sped away, and Bernardo put up his brushes and dismantled his easel. Laden with these and the basket he approached Candida. And all the while Benedetto gaped. Candida had her silvery stockings on now, and knelt on one knee putting on a shoe. Bernardo dropped his burdens and knelt beside her, and his hands claimed the shoe-buckle.
The two round faces were very close again. "Well, and now, sir?" said Candida, her breath on his cheek.
"Now," said Bernardo, "you are going back to Vellano."
She started up, a quaint, majestical little figure.
"I will not!" she cried. "Do you hear? I will not!"
Bernardo possessed himself of the other foot, and she tottered. "Indeed you will, if I have to carry you," said Bernardo, with her foot in his hand.
She could not thus be very majestical. But, "How dare you?" she cried angrily.
Bernardo bent and kissed her toes.
"Oh!" said Candida.
Bernardo put on her shoe. "Moreover," said he, "that highly respectable gentleman who wanted to be your husband will certainly want no more."
"Oh!" said Candida, and stamped her foot. Bernardo removed his fingers just in time.
Candida went off through the wood with her brother. Bernardo followed, bearing his burdens and admiring her light walk.
In the road a most noble escort waited, and Bernardo's own six men. The first saluted, the last sprang down to take his burdens. Bernardo turned to Candida. "May I offer you a pillion?"
"I prefer to ride with my brother," said Candida in a small, cold voice.
"That," said Bernardo, "would be both quiet and good."
Bernardo rode at the head of his escort, exultant. Never was a day more to his taste. He had painted a picture and pinked a man and kissed his sister's toes. Bernardo made his horse dance and tossed his sword in the air and caught it by the point. The sun was falling golden to the hills; before him lay Vellano, domes and towers of gold.
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THE dreariest days are not his whom death has robbed of his best beloved, who must live out his life alone. Worse is the dragging misery that comes to him who must feel each day the scorn of those who once loved him, whom he still loves. That was Francesco's punishment.
Beatrice had no pity. She met him day by day with a cold politeness. She talked with him as with a stranger. Each gesture, each pose of her splendid beauty spoke contempt. Withal she was careful to show that he was her master, she the servant. She would have none of his plan to make her regent. All orders had to come from him. She obeyed faithfully. And the sting of that obedience was more bitter than all else. Once he had tried to plead with her to spare him that. She heard the stammering, shame-fraught sentences to the end. "It is not for me to forget that I am your wife," she said. Francesco bowed, biting his lip. So he was made come back to his post. He was again count in Zena, and as wretched as any man alive.
Beatrice was punctilious in all wifely duty. She saw that her precise service hurt him, and was none the less dutiful for that. He deserved to suffer. It was her duty to deal out punishment. He had wronged their child.
Francesco sought no more ecstasies. He stifled all thought, all feeling for himself. He turned to the work at hand---to make Zena safe, to guard his people, his wife, his son from Castracane. The battered walls of Zena were strengthened. The townsfolk of Zena were drilled with pike and crossbow. From the countryfolk he raised a regiment of horse and trained them with his own guard. He knew they mocked at him behind his back for an unfledged monk, a half-witted fool, but he went on with the work. His old soldierly skill served him well, and he kept his temper and his head when they blundered steadily to annoy him. Little by little he began to win back their respect. He needed that much.
But from Beatrice he won nothing. The days went by and she changed no whit. Day by day she made him feel in a hundred ways that she despised him. She was not merciful. His offence had been too vast. She in her purity had scant pity for any sinner---none for sin such as his.
There was another woman in the palace at Zena of another temper. Cecilia da Castiglione was indeed wholly for Beatrice. Beatrice was the first good woman the poor girl had known, and to her Beatrice was the best and loveliest woman in the world. And Francesco had done horrible wrong. Certainly it was right for Beatrice to be cold and scornful to him when first he came back. But never to be any kinder---always to scorn him---could that be right? Surely, Beatrice had loved him. Why, then, she must love him still. For one could never stop loving what one had loved. So Beatrice must think it right to be still unkind. Perhaps it was right. But she saw Francesco's pain, and all her life when Cecilia saw anything suffer, she suffered, too. So she began to be timidly kind to him, to make him talk, to sit with him after Beatrice had swept scornful away, to give him one friend in his loneliness; and Francesco learned to look eagerly for the little wistful face, with its welcoming smile, and the light in her blue eyes.
Beatrice watched jealously. Having proved Francesco sinful, she suspected him easily of new sin. That it was her duty to stay, for his own sake, for Cecilia's, too---the girl left in her care.
So it was that one day when Beatrice and he were sitting together in silence and alone, he asked, "Where is Cecilia?"
Beatrice's lovely face was paler than ivory. Her eyes blazed. "I wonder that you dare ask," she said in a strange, choking voice.
Francesco started. "I know no reason why I should not."
"Is it not enough that you have shamed one woman?"
After one moment of utter amazement, Francesco recovered his dignity. "Lady, I have given you the right to despise me. Of Cecilia da Castiglione you have no cause nor right to speak save with all honour."
"Cecilia! She is a child. She does not know you." Beatrice's fair face was distorted with passion. "It is you who are vile. You that shamed me, and now would bring her to blacker shame!"
"You shame yourself to say so!" cried Francesco. "I have wronged you, God knows, enough; but never so---never so, in word or thought!"
"Ay, you are to be believed!" She laughed shrill. "You are to be trusted!"
"For your own sake and hers, I beg you believe me now."
"And leave her to you for your pleasure!"
Francesco gazed in wonder at her distorted face, her ugly eyes; here was some fury of base thoughts and passions, not the noble, stately woman he had known. "Any evil you find in this comes of your own mind," he said sharply.
Suddenly her face changed; there was wonder on it now, and pain. "You---you---is it for you to reproach me?" she gasped.
Francesco hid his face in his hands. "Why must you make yourself vile too?" he groaned.
She gave a little cry, and gazed at him a moment. Then hurried away.
From that hour Cecilia's happiness waned. Beatrice was kind to her no more. Instead of the old, half-motherly affection, Beatrice gave the cold politeness she used toward Francesco. Cecilia began to shrink from her and fear her. The girl knew nothing of any offence. When timidly she asked Beatrice if she had done wrong at all---"If you had I should have told you!" said Beatrice sharply.
But Beatrice was sore troubled. She knew she had wronged the girl; she doubted now that she had wronged Francesco. But even to herself she would not confess all. To convict herself of a vile causeless jealousy---to admit she had sullied her own purity---she could not that. Yet something in her yearned to humble herself and pray forgiveness of them both. And her heart was torn in misery. Still in desperate, stupid courage she hid her pain behind a mask of pride.
Francesco still treated Cecilia with a grave, distant kindliness. But even Francesco avoided her, and spoke to her little and carelessly. He sought to save the girl and himself from any more mad suspicion. But Cecilia could not guess that. She saw only that even Francesco in his loneliness would have none of her company now.
There were tears often on the wistful, pretty face when the girl tried to think it out. She had done no wrong. Yet they disliked her. Yet Beatrice was unkind. Then it must be that Beatrice did not love her. Beatrice thought her not worthy love. And Beatrice was always right. The poor child, with her hungry yearning to be loved, was hurt bitterly.
One night, Lisa, Beatrice's woman, came into her bedroom and found her sobbing. Lisa, good, motherly soul, put her arm about the child. "Hush, my lamb!---hush! What is it? Tell me now, dearie!"
"N-nothing!---n-nothing!" Cecilia sobbed. "Nobody loves me!"
"Dear heart!" Lisa laughed tenderly. "Sure, we all love you."
"Do you?" Cecilia lifted her little, tear-stained face. Lisa gathered the child to her bosom. "Yes!---yes! But you do not know me. And the---the countess, she does not love me any more. She did---but not now. I---I---I am not worth loving!"
"My poor lamb!" Lisa caressed her. "Dearie, never grieve your heart so. You are better worth loving than any maid in Lombardy. There will be a-many men to tell you so."
"But Beatrice---but the countess---she---"
"Dear heart, 'tis not that my lady thinks you not worth loving," Lisa laughed. "'Tis that she finds you too apt for love. She has been fearing"---Lisa whispered---"fearing you would come between her and her count."
"I?" cried Cecilia in utter amazement---"I? Oh, Lisa, how could I? Oh, but how evil she must think me!"
"Nay, nay, child! A trifle of jealousy; 'tis only that. We all have that, Our Lady knows! She'll learn her error---and win her count back. Give her joy of him!" Lisa sniffed disdainfully. "Then she will love you all the more. O Mary, there is my lady calling! Never weep over this, child. Think of your lovers that will be, and they will be hosts!" Lisa kissed her and bustled away.
Slowly Cecilia, half-dazed, grasped this new thought. She to come between Beatrice and her love? She keep them apart? Oh, it had been better, a thousand thousand times better, that Squarcia had never brought her to Zena at all! That she should be hurting Beatrice, the best, the dearest woman in all the world! She must go away. She must go away at once.
That night she wrote a letter.
"To the Countess:"Indeed, I never meant to hurt you! I do want you and the count to be very happy. Indeed, I did not know I was hindering! Now I have gone, I do hope it will be all well. Please forgive me. Please do not hate me, now!"CECILIA."
With the dawn she stole out of Zena all alone to find Squarcia.
All the day she plodded on down the valley happily enough. Squarcia was to be the end of the journey. A kindly farmstead gave her shelter at night, and with dawn she was off again. The valley was wide now, and broad vineyards rose above her to the darker forest trees. She walked a much-trodden track. Squarcia and his men had marched that way once and again. But where Squarcia was now, none could certainly tell her. Squarcia had been moving too swiftly. One peasant gave her this direction, another that. And then not many hours after dawn she came upon mounted men.
She saw the red and black; she turned to flee. A horse was up with her in an instant, a great, gauntleted hand gripping at her neck. "A woman!---a woman! My prize!" came the yell. She was jerked struggling off the ground, and clinched tight in a man's arm while he tore at her dress.
The rest of the troop were all about her and her captor. "You? You be flayed! She is common to all!" a dozen voices roared.
"And mine first!" Their captain smote his way through with a whip. "Back, you dogs!" The whip butt fell on her captor's wrist. The captain took her face in his hand and stared coolly at her white agony. "Name of the devil!" he cried. "This is meat for your master. This is the Red Wolf's page. She---"
Then Cecilia screamed: "O God, not that! Kill me!---kill me! Not that!"
"The Red Wolf likes to kill his own way, my sweet. Tie her up and bring her on, my Pedrillo. By the greater Beelzebub, she will have some pretty little devilries to feel, sweet chuck!" He patted her white, drawn face and laughed. "Wheel about! By the road to Sestola! At the trot!"
So Cecilia was borne away in misery. She knew her fate too well. All the vile torments she had seen of old came to wrench and wrack her heart. And happiness had been so near!---so near!
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IF you would like to know all the things that Squarcia did wrong before the battle of Sestola, read the commentary of Taddeo Mondaleschi upon Julius Manutius "De Militari Usu." Therein you will find Taddeo angrily complaining that by the march to join forces with Bernardo Bruni, Squarcia left Zena and Noventa open to Castracane and abandoned to him the higher ground. Which is doubtless true. But still Squarcia did join forces with Bernardo Bruni. Which seems (with all respect to Taddeo) to have been the true strategic aim. That Castracane's horsemen would break over the marches of Zena and Noventa, Squarcia doubtless expected. That Cecilia and Lucrezia would put themselves in the way to be captured, he could hardly guess. Taddeo's other charge of abandoning the higher ground is to be confessed. Squarcia made his mistakes. But he also won battles; which I cannot find that Taddeo Mondaleschi ever did.
So you have the two armies all but equal now---Castracane on the gentle slope of the foot-hills beyond Sestola, Squarcia fronting him in the plain below.
It was a glorious day in May. The sun stood dazzling in a dark-blue sky. Through that lucid air the mountains' white splendour seemed very near, and below the snow line were masses of colour, rich purple and blue. Nearer yet the limestone stood naked, square and grey. Below the crags came the shimmering blue-green of the pines, then the brighter tint of chestnut and mulberry and elm and vine, and then red and black horsemen trampling down the millet. The armies were a maze of mingled colour against the pale-green fields. Castracane's host---horsemen, pikemen, crossbowmen---all were uniform in black breastplate and helm and scarlet sleeves. But below, Squarcia mustered a motley host. Every man indeed had helmet and breastplate burnished bright, but here were Squarcia's own men in doublet and hose of dark crimson, there the grey-green of Vellano, here again Noventa's white and gold.
Hither and thither the colours turned and changed. White smoke clouds began to drift over Squarcia's men. A dull confused din arose. Squarcia was trying every trick of his tactics to tempt Castracane to a charge down the hill. His arquebusiers fired steadily from afar. His guns attempted a cannonade, but unmounted, utterly unhandy, with no means to get a range uphill, buried their balls in the ground. He offered cavalry for a flank attack; he flung out a battalion unsupported; he broke his lines and left a gap for Castracane to strike at. But nothing happened. Castracane knew the strength of his ground too well to leave it.
Bernardo Bruni, his round face entirely serious, came to Squarcia. They spoke together awhile in curt half-sentences. Bernardo rode off. Then his squires went speeding hither and thither. The game of tactics began again. The horsemen of Noventa made a feint against Castracane's right wing; the horsemen of Vellano threatened his centre; but neither pushed the charge home up the hill. And Castracane's horsemen, well handled, hovered, waiting for them to risk too much.
Squarcia, sitting motionless in the saddle, a round mass of mail, sent some fresh orders.
"Oh, fight, in God's name, fight!" Lionardo groaned at his side.
Squarcia turned with a start. Already he had every nerve at strain. No man, and your soldier least of all, likes to be taught his own trade. But he saw Lionardo's face. "I am doing my best," he said gently.
Lionardo nodded and bit his lip. He was learning what like is the worst pain in the world---to have no power to save those you love. All this pomp of war, thousands of men ready to fight for him to death, Squarcia, the conqueror of fifty fights---all could not avail to keep his love from shame. He was helpless. And she---
"Go ride with your men awhile," said Squarcia.
The horsemen of Noventa and Vellano united and moved out beyond Castracane's right wing. Bernardo Bruni flung out a couple of battalions of pikemen after them, and left the little force isolated, a tempting bait. Castracane's prudent horse waited still. But Squarcia was not watching them. For an instant, and one instant only, he had seen a man on the skyline to Castracane's left rear.
That man was young Battista Faggiuola, of Francesco's guard.
The elaborate manœvres went on. Bernardo Bruni planned the most alluring temptations. He brought the horsemen of Vellano back from wing to centre across Castracane's front, strung out in long weak lines, fair mark for a charge in flank. Castracane's horse waited still, always ready, but never daring. Castracane's bowmen shot a few score bolts; his pikemen rested on their arms.
Then over the skyline came a mass of horsemen. Francesco, whatever he was, was a captain of cavalry. He saw how the battle was balanced. He made up his mind in a moment. He brought his two regiments of horse smashing down on Castracane's flank and rear. They came headlong, with all the slope of the hill to help their speed and weight. They crashed upon Castracane's left wing and crumpled it and hurled it in wild disorder upon the centre and broke through to Squarcia.
But before their charge had struck home, Squarcia was giving orders as fast as he could speak. His squires went galloping this way and that. The whole army began to pivot and change front. The horsemen of Vellano, formed in close order, came at speed from the centre. Francesco and his men had hardly won clear of Castracane's shattered ranks when the men of Vellano thundered past them---up the hill now that their foes were broken---and wrought more havoc. When they won clear, Squarcia's right was on the higher ground, his left was withdrawn; he was full on Castracane's flank.
Bernardo Bruni, smiling now and still extremely calm, was changing the infantry formation with speed. Dense columns of pikemen rolled, shouting, down on Castracane's shattered wing. It had never a chance to form again. Its broken ranks threw the centre into disorder, and still Squarcia's heavy columns pressed on. Castracane's horsemen had tried to come from the other wing to aid. Old Poggio Nardi, with the horse of Noventa, got a charge home on the flank of one regiment and hampered them all. They charged at last on Squarcia's weakened centre. But now the guns had them at close range and mowed down swathes of them, and the arquebusiers, firing through the thin line of pikes, shattered their front. While they faltered, Squarcia loosed the horsemen of Vellano upon them, and Poggio Nardi came down on their flank again, and Castracane's horsemen were regiments no more. They broke altogether, they fled, and the men of Vellano and Noventa rode them down and slew and slew.
Lionardo turned and rode back. There had been something to stir the blood in the charges. This killing had neither danger nor zest. Francesco had come to Squarcia just before him.
"Well charged, by Pompey!" Squarcia nodded, and turned again to the battle.
"Castracane has taken Cecilia," said Francesco.
The big man moved in his saddle.
"She left Zena alone, to find you," said Francesco.
Squarcia bit his lip, and the blood began to come upon his beard.
"I was not kind to her. That is why," said Francesco.
The din of the battle rose louder. At the battle Squarcia looked still. "Can your men charge again?" he growled.
"Yes!"
"Get a charge home on their right centre."
Off Francesco went, eagerly enough. Lionardo, stung himself by the pain of helplessness, looked curiously at Squarcia. Blood-clots lay upon Squarcia's beard; his hairy face was drawn; his little grey eyes glittered like points of steel as he watched the battle.
And now out of the midst of Castracane's army an ordered squadron came and rode off to the rear. The next moment Francesco crashed home on the centre, and the whole army reeled. Lionardo saw Bernardo Bruni's squires break away from him. Hither and thither they galloped, shouting, cursing, slamming every man into line. Crimson and green and white and gold, the whole motley array crashed down on Castracane's tottering ranks.
Squarcia turned suddenly to Lionardo. "And now for you and me!" he said. "Come!" and galloped off to his own splendid regiment of horse, held chafing in reserve all day. "Now, my children," he shouted, "at the trot!" Up to the hills above the surge of the fight he led them.
"Squarcia!---Squarcia!---Squarcia, and strike home!" That roar from a myriad throats was the last Lionardo heard of the battle of Sestola. The last he saw of it was Bernardo Bruni riding alone behind the conquering ranks, his round face smiling placidly, his hand twirling a crimson rose.
Lionardo turned and saw Squarcia point ahead. That one orderly squadron of Castracane's was vanishing through a gap in the hills.
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"THE Lord Squarcia waits upon your Highness."
"Admit him," said Beatrice.
Squarcia rolled in with Francesco. "I present to your Highness a gentleman who has fought for you very valiantly---"
"It needs not that this gentleman and I should meet again." Beatrice rose stately, cold scorn in her eyes, on her lip.
"---Into whose care," said Squarcia genially, "I commit yourself and Zena." He saluted and rolled out again.
Then Francesco fell on his knees before Beatrice. "Lady, I do most humbly pray your pardon."
"My pardon!" Beatrice echoed with a scornful laugh.
"I have done you a great wrong. I cannot hope that you will pardon me yet. And yet I must needs pray your pardon."
"My pardon!" said Beatrice again. "Oh, indeed, you have that! Believe me, sir, what you have done is nothing now to me. You yourself are nothing to me, You have gone out of my life."
Nothing---or something to hate bitterly. What better could he be? He had called her child their shame.
Francesco rose from his knees. "So will you never more go from mine. Lady, I have been mad, I think. I have been false to my duty. I have been false to you---"
"Pray, spare me more talk of yourself!"
Francesco flushed. "I have but to say this. I deserted my post. Henceforth my son is Count of Zena and you are regent for him. I am your servant to my death."
"I ask no service of you."
"Your servant and his I must be. Do not bid me be even baser than I have been."
"I care not what you are!"
Francesco bowed. "I pray you one favour. Let me see my son."
"You---you dare ask that?" she cried fiercely.
"You are very just, lady," Francesco groaned. "And yet---yes, I dare."
Beatrice looked at him a moment, wonder and scorn mingling in her eyes. Then she called one of her women.
The babe was brought in his nurse's arms, nested in white, chubby, smiling, wide-eyed. Francesco bent over him; looked long and close. Beatrice was watching, and her face grew evil and envious. Francesco bent lower and kissed the child, and the child gurgled and crowed delight.
"Take him away!" cried Beatrice.
Francesco turned to face her. "Lady, I thank you," he said, and bowed.
But When Beatrice was left alone, tears came fast---bitter tears of anger. She hated Francesco the more fiercely for daring to kiss the child, the more fiercely because the child had smiled at him. Oh, it was vile in him to claim the child's love now! ... And if, as the days went by and the years, the boy did learn to love Francesco---why then---She was white suddenly, she caught at her heart and strove to put away a fancy that frightened her. The boy must be hers always, hers only. She deserved that at least. She had always been true and good and kind.
Squarcia, rolling off down the corridor, had come upon Cecilia da Castiglione.
"He is going to love her again?" cried Cecilia, blue eyes shining.
"His Highness has come to his exalted senses," said Squarcia. "But tell me, child, does she still love him?"
Cecilia laughed. "How little you men know of loving! When a woman loves, she loves for always---and always---and always---whatever he does." So Cecilia the maid.
"And how do you know?" said Squarcia. She hung her head, and her neck was rosy. Squarcia, hand on his sword-hilt, smiled at her, for indeed she was good to see.
"Well, child, when a woman has begun to love a man she goes on because she must. But why in wonder does she ever begin?"
"Of course---she---she wants to love---so much." She turned her sad, pretty little face to him. "Did you never want to love?"
"Heaven and earth! Do I look a lover?" laughed Squarcia.
"As if that counted!" cried Cecilia with a toss of her head.
"Oho! Does it not?"
"Do you think women love prettiness?" cried Cecilia with bitter scorn. "That is a man's way! Women love courage and truth and goodness."
Squarcia tapped her round cheek. "Well, child, do not scold him if he loves this too," said he, and it was rose-red and hot under his fingers.
"I---I will not scold him," said Cecilia unsteadily, and her eyes shrank from his.
Trumpets pealed from the market-place.
"What is that?" she cried. "Ah, you are going to fight again!" and she pressed her hand to her breast.
"A little fair fighting now," said Squarcia. "Well! God keep you, child!" He drew her to him, and was going to kiss her forehead.
"No!---no!" She shrank away. "I am not a child!"
The trumpets pealed again. Squarcia saluted and rolled clattering away.
Cecilia's blue eyes glistened through tears. She climbed to one of the palace towers and looked out. It was a day of bright sunshine and driving showers. A rainbow spanned the valleys from white mountain crest to crest. Through the rain she saw the glittering squadrons ride out, and thousands of pikemen and arquebusiers parading on their bivouac without the walls. They wheeled and marched on behind the horsemen.
Faintly down wind came the chorus of their song:
"Squarcia marching!Helm and pike a-flash!Squarcia marching!Blade and mail a-clash!Way, give a way for the Rose!"
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THE three columns of Bernardo Bruni's army had reached the marches of Noventa. In the intervals of sending very polite messages to the commander of his lagging transport ("Give the marshal all honourable greetings, and remind him that transport should at times move"), Bernardo observed Lionardo with some amusement.
For a day and half a day Lionardo had looked with longing eyes westward, where lay Noventa town and Lucrezia. "If I were you, I should go to Heaven," said Bernardo Bruni. Lionardo swung round in the saddle and stared at him. "Oh! is not that Heaven?" Bernardo inquired, pointing westward.
"Beyond doubt!" said Lionardo. "Even as Heaven was Benedetto Perrotti's respectable chamber."
"Then go to Heaven---your Heaven; you can stay there half a day and catch us at Sestola."
"Faith, I will take your godly advice!" Lionardo laughed, and turned away over the pasture.
"Softly!---softly!" Bernardo cried. "Have a guard, man!"
"Each of us must win to Heaven alone," said Lionardo, and went off at speed.
"He is beautifully mad. That is so rare," said Bernardo. "Gian, go and see if the transport has fallen asleep."
After nightfall, eager, on a weary horse, Lionardo came to Noventa. And there he was told that the countess was staying in her villa at Pontevico. He cursed his luck, and then laughed at himself and slept.
To Pontevico on a fresh horse he came not many hours after dawn. Lucrezia, with the Lady Porzia and Ottavia, that negligible woman, and Ramiro Capucci, was at breakfast under the trees. "Why, 'tis his Highness of Vellano! Alone, as usual!" cried Lucrezia. "My lord, I think you hate your fellows! You certainly shun them."
"I love them too well to inflict my company upon them."
"By the same argument, my lord, you do not love us." But she made room for him at her side.
"Now, what has argument to do with love?"
"Why, in both victory is pleasant." Her dark eyes sparkled and mocked him.
"But in argument only one can win. In love the conquered conquers, too."
She raised her glass of wine-stained water. "I drink to the conqueror---in argument." And she laughed at him over her glass.
"Have I been arguing? What waste of time!"
"Why?"
"Because you, thank God, are a woman, and I, thank God, am a man!"
Over neck and cheek and brow, to her glorious golden hair, came her blush. "You are very devout, my lord!"
"I feel devout. I have a whole half a day to be"---he looked at Lucrezia with a smile in his eyes---"here."
"Half a day!" said Lucrezia, with something like a pout. "What can one do in half a day?"
"Why---if one wishes---great things," said Lionardo softly.
Again her blush answered.
All this while the unhappy Ramiro Capucci had been left to talk to the Lady Porzia, who did not listen, and Ottavia Segni, who was too much afraid of him to answer. He was much relieved when the countess rose, and his labours were done.
Lucrezia laid the tips of her fingers on Lionardo's arm. "My lord, will you ride with me?" she said softly.
Lionardo's eyes glowed; a word was ready on his lips, but he checked himself. "Ride? Castracane's horsemen go far afield. It is scarce safe for you."
Her hand fell. She drew away. "Oh, if you are afraid!" She laughed scornfully. "Ramiro, pray, is it safe to go riding?"
Ramiro Capucci smiled. "His Highness need not fear. I will myself be your escort."
"I thank you," said the countess, and swept away.
Lionardo was left to pull at his lip. He came to Ramiro Capucci. "Sir, if I were to ask you a favour---"
"You would make a mistake," said Ramiro Capucci, and turned on his heel.
So an absurd party of three rode past the guard at the villa and away above the lake over the upland pastures. The countess led the way, and the two men followed abreast. She set them a furious pace. Ramiro spurred up to her side and began to talk, but had no thanks for his courtesy. They dashed on, mile after mile, in silence.
Suddenly Ramiro Capucci stood up in his stirrups and looked behind him. A new sound had startled his soldier's ear. "Hell!" he muttered, and his pale face flushed. Betwixt them and Pontevico, coming over the bosom of the hill, were horsemen---horsemen who followed them---riding hard, and the sun betrayed the red and black of Castracane. Lionardo saw them, too.
Ramiro Capucci and he looked into each other's eyes. Ramiro waited for blame, for oaths.... Neither came.
"We must on into the wood," said Lionardo. "Then I will lag behind and lead them up over the hills. Do you ride on with the countess down into the valley. Keep her safe, if you live."
Ramiro Capucci stared into his eyes a moment more, then touched his hat and spurred on to the countess. She was some way in front. She had seen nothing. Ramiro said nothing.
But on the verge of the pine-wood she checked her horse. "On!" Ramiro muttered---"on! Castracane's riders are after us!"
"Castracane?" she cried---"Castracane? Oh, and I---I---" She looked wildly round, saw Lionardo far behind, and cried out something that was no word at all. "Does he know?" she cried to Ramiro. "Why does he linger?"
"To put them off our track while we ride on. Come!"
"I will not!" she cried, reining her horse up sharply---"I will not!"
"By God, you will!" said Ramiro, and caught the reins from her hand, and let his whip fall on her horse's quarter, so that it plunged forward, and she was near shaken from the saddle. Ramiro held her up, and together they plunged into the shade of the wood.
"You---you coward!" she gasped---"you coward! You leave him to face them alone! Go back to him! Help him!"
"I have to help you," said Ramiro, guiding both horses through the trees.
"Me! What do I matter? I brought him---I brought him here, and now he has to die for my folly. Ah! for the love of God, if you are a man, go back to him!"
"He has his work, I have mine," said Ramiro, turning the horses downhill.
"Do you think I want to live?" she gasped.
"It seems not," said Ramiro. "But you will tomorrow."
She sobbed and shook in her saddle.
They broke out of the wood into sunlight again, and then over the bare spur of the hill came full upon another troop of Castracane's men.
"Into the web, Mistress Fly," cried their leader, laughing, and the ranks spread wide to catch them.
Ramiro Capucci had done all he could. He attempted no more. He let go the countess's bridle; he drew his sword; he came thundering down the hill on the weakest of the line. Some one slashed at him and hit his horse; but he spitted the man on his point, freed it, and broke through and away.
"Let the vermin go; we have the deer!" cried the leader, and they closed about the countess. "Faith, here is a pretty dish for the Red Wolf! Truss her up, Lippo, and---no. Tie her on her own saddle. Be respectful. He might want her for wife."
Wan and tearless, deaf to insult, still and dumb, Lucrezia was bound to her saddle, and so they led her away, helpless and hopeless.
"By the bones of my wife! She thinks she is dead already!" laughed one.
"The Red Wolf will soon show her she is alive!"
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SLEEPLESS through a day and a night, Cecilia had borne her agony. When with the dawn of a new day they set food before her, she turned from it with loathing. They forced wine down her throat and flung her, bound still, on a horse again and rode on. Now at last she had relief. Her brain was wearied out. She could suffer no more. Still she had dull consciousness of the foul torments to come, but the thought of them gave her no pang. She contemplated herself as a creature alien, indifferent. She was hardly alive.
It was not till the afternoon that they came to Castracane's army, the afternoon of the day on which Squarcia, joined by Bernardo Bruni, offered battle at last. Castracane had little leisure that day. Even for the lust and torture he loved so fiercely he could not tarry then. Fiend as the chroniclers call him, fiend as he was, he was yet a good soldier. He knew Squarcia too well to despise him, and war too well to run needless risk.
But when they told him Cecilia was captured he laughed aloud and came to look at her. She lay on the ground where they had dropped her, her hands and feet bound still, a limp, wretched little figure. She saw the lean, livid face and the flicker of his hairless eyelids; but she had seen that too often in fancy to shudder now.
And while Castracane glowered down at her with cruel, dilating eyes, they brought him the Countess Lucrezia, too. Again he laughed. Pale, proud-eyed, she met his gaze; then, sore against her will, felt her cheeks flush. Those pale eyes of his said so much.
"So you are the girl that thinks Vellano's kisses savoury," said Castracane. "I do not think you will ever be in Vellano's arms again---or yes! Yes! You shall! You living and he dead, heart to heart. How sweet a picture! Ah!" The trample of Squarcia's cavalry made him turn. "Tie her up, too! Drop her down with the other! Put a sentry over them!" The soldiers gripped at her roughly. "Mistress Lucrezia, you had best pray that I may think you pretty enough to amuse me to-night. And you"---he turned to Cecilia with his mirthless laugh---"it is no use for you to pray at all."
The two women bound and gagged lay together looking into hopeless eyes.
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"LADY, you know me as Lionardo da Feltre. That is my name, and I am Duke of Vellano." Lionardo stood before Beatrice.
She smiled a little. "I always knew that you were more than a soldier."
"But indeed I am less," said Lionardo quickly. He went on to speak, not of her own trouble, nor Francesco, but of the girl, half child, half woman, whom they had saved from Castracane. "She is the last of the Castiglioni; she shall yet be Marchioness of Frido. But she needs a friend, a woman, very much."
"Let her come to me," said Beatrice eagerly; and love was alight in her eyes.
Lionardo looked and wondered at her beauty and Francesco's folly. Sure, there was no woman in the world so lovely as she. The knowledge of motherhood and sorrow and shame had glorified that fine-wrought face. But of old her eyes had set Lionardo's blood aflame. Now he looked, and his heart beat calm and slow. Pity he felt, and friendship, and a great desire to help. Passion was gone. There was no hope for passion before those mother's eyes. But help---he would give his life to help her. There was no call for his life. Let his wits do their best.
Lionardo began to tell the story. How the prior was in league with Castracane; how Francesco had been cheated, tricked, betrayed. That was the burden of it.
"Cheated?" said Beatrice. "I do not understand. A man must know what he wishes."
Lionardo went on to convince her of what he did not believe himself---that Francesco was sinned against, not sinning. The prior's devilish hypocrisy was his topic. The prior, so said Lionardo, had been made a monk himself against his own will by Francesco's father. For all his talk of holiness, he hated his orders. He was revenging himself on the son for the father's injury. He had made Francesco monk out of hatred. The prior, in fact, was a devil; Francesco, a poor, injured soul.
"How vile men are," said Beatrice.
"Yet some of us may be trusted."
She blushed. "Indeed, sir, you have always been my very true friend."
"And so am I still, lady, when I pray you speak with Count Francesco."
Her blush was darker. "You do not understand. I went to him, and he denied me---he denied me before all the people."
"God help him!" said Lionardo. "Yet, lady, you love him."
Beatrice, blushing still, raised her head. "Yet I love him," she said. "Sir, I will go to him again if he will speak with me."
"This time," said Lionardo, "he shall come here."
So Lionardo brought Cecilia to the palace and went off to the monastery.
The monks, poor souls, were something perturbed. Their prior had gone out the night before and had not yet returned. They knew nothing of his plots; but they had heard that strange soldiery had come into the town, and they were afraid with the very distressing fear of ignorance. So when Lionardo came to the gate and knocked, he was examined through the grating by many pairs of eyes. At last they came to the momentous decision to ask, "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I am who I am," said Lionardo. "And I want to come in."
"There is---you are---you are only yourself?" stammered a monk.
"I am rapidly becoming beside myself," said Lionardo.
After more mutterings they let him in, making a compromise by holding the gate so that he could but just squeeze through. They were quite honest and very scared.
"Now," said Lionardo, "I will see Count Francesco."
There was much looking at each other. Then one said, "Brother Francesco is at his devotions."
"Take me to them," said Lionardo.
At last they did, and Lionardo was brought to a little cell where Francesco, white-robed, crouched on his knees and muttered. Lionardo took him by the shoulder and turned him round. Francesco blinked like a man coming suddenly to the light. "You? Who are you?" he said hoarsely.
"I am the man who once saved your life."
"I owe you no thanks for that." Francesco came stiffly to his feet.
"I am the man who gave you your wife."
Francesco flushed. "Sir, I am one who has ceased to care for the things of this world."
"Have you ceased to be a man?"
For one moment that stung, Lionardo could see his eyes flash, and hoped heartily for an angry answer. But none came. "Sir, I have put off the flesh," said Francesco gently.
"Have you put off honour too?"
"What the world calls honour is no holy virtue. I trust I have none of it."
"Oh, be assured!" Lionardo sneered; but Francesco only smiled. There was no stirring him to anger. Lionardo played another card. "And who brought you to this holy state of mind? The most reverend Prior Donato. The most reverend Prior Donato made a plot with Jacopo Castracane, that other devout soul, to cheat you into being a monk. You remember a year ago Castracane tried to get you murdered. This year he has tried a craftier way. Prior Donato has trapped you in his monastery. Castracane is marching on Zena."
Francesco rubbed his hand across his forehead. "What do you tell me? My father the prior in a plot with Castracane? I do not believe it."
"Here is his own letter to Castracane."
Francesco looked at it dully a moment, then brushed it aside. "What does it matter? What do I care? I do not believe it; but, if it is true, I do not care. God can use any instruments. I have come to the only way of peace. In that I pray to Him I may continue."
Lionardo had a wild impulse to strike him and see what would come of that. But it was too certain that Francesco would turn the other cheek. Lionardo had failed, and he knew it. He had hoped to bring Beatrice a lover back; but that was not to be. If Beatrice was to have the man's love again she must win it herself. Now to give her the chance: "Sir, when a man walks in your way of peace is he free from all duties to others?"
"Sir," said Francesco, with kindling eyes, "it is his great joy and pride to bring others to his own happy way. May I speak with you awhile? I---"
"Oh, I thank you! --- I thank you I" said Lionardo in a hurry. "I have work to do in the world as yet. But there is one, sir, with a stronger claim than I. You have never spoken on these high matters with your wife."
"It is true," said Francesco gravely. "I have failed in my duty. Yet she may not come here. It is against all the rule of the order. And I ought not to go to her. I am in my novitiate; and till I have taken full orders it is not permitted to me to leave the walls. Yet the rules of men should not stand in the way of a soul's salvation."
"Amen!---amen!" said Lionardo heartily. The man, after all, was not altogether mad.
"I will go to her," said Francesco.
To the wondering hroror of the monks he went. Lionardo walked with him to the palace and watched him in. Squarcia was sauntering in the courtyard, tossing a ball from one hand to the other. He came up to Lionardo and "Well?" said he.
Lionardo shrugged his shoulders. "God knows!"
"Ay, God always knows. But He leaves us to act. What is the man like?"
Lionardo shrugged again. "He seems almost mad. But not quite."
Squarcia took Lionardo's arm and walked him away. Messer Lionardo, what would you like to do here?"
"I should like to bring that fool back to his wife again. And then I should like to fight Castracane."
Squarcia nodded his hairy head. "Patience, patience, give the time to rally!" he quoted a soldier's proverb. "I am going to ask you to do something harder than fight. Messer Lionardo, war with Castracane is not a matter of little forays. We play a big game. Mark you, now! Zena is ours and Vellano is ours and Castracane is between the two of them, like the ham in a sandwich. Which is well for him and hell for us. Noventa lies along the side of the sandwich touching Zena, touching Castracane, touching Vellano. Give me Noventa and our game is even. Give it to Castracane and we fight long odds. Now, Messer Lionardo, for whom is Noventa?" His little grey eyes twinkled bright.
Lionardo's face was red. "You want me to go to Noventa? Very well. I will go. But what of this man that wants to be monk?"
"Messer Lionardo, there was a time when you wanted to do nothing. Now you want to do everything. Leave me a little."
Lionardo looked into the grey eyes, and no one ever mistrusted them. Lionardo took Squarcia's arm. "And you---do your best for the Countess Beatrice," he said, and let the arm go.
"I always do my best," said Squarcia simply.
In the palace in her own room Beatrice sat with her babe at her breast. One of the women broke in to tell her that Francesco had come and was asking for her. Beatrice did not move. "Let him come to me here," she said.
So Francesco, in his black monk's gown, came and stood before his wife and his child. He saw the tiny, chubby thing press at her breast; he saw her lovely face glorious in the joy of motherhood. His eyes were cold. "I greet you in the name of the Virgin," he said. Beatrice was bent over the babe, and she did not look at him nor answer. "I have come to you, my sister---"
Then her dark eyes darted flame at him. "You call me that!" she cried. "You!"
Francesco went calmly on, "---to pray you think of the way I have chosen." And still Beatrice looked at him with flaming eyes. But the man felt nothing. "I am anxious for your soul. I pray you cut yourself off from the flesh, even as I. Thus only can you attain to holiness and the greatest joy."
"I?" Beatrice cried. Then the flame died in her dark eyes, and her voice came low and tender. "Ah, Francesco! have we not known joy together, you and I? And this"---she caressed the babe at her breast-"who gave us this? Is he not God's token that love is right?"
Francesco shook his head. "Our love and that past joy in our love should be our shame. That babe is here to keep our shame before us. We---"
Beatrice started up, and the flame flashed fierce in her eyes. "Shame?" her voice rang out. "Yes, I am shamed, indeed! Shamed that ever I loved you! Go!"
Francesco tried to speak and could not. Francesco tried to meet her eyes and could not that either. Francesco went out and left Beatrice in her glorious wrath.
He walked across the courtyard, wandering on this side and that from the straight path. He was a little dazed.
In the gate he met Squarcia. "Whither now?" says Squarcia.
"I am going back to the monastery," said Francesco without looking at him.
"Oh, no, you are not," said Squarcia.
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"AT the gallop! Keep the ranks!"
They were breaking through a mob of fugitives, sparing none that came in their path, turning aside for none.
The sun was setting in a glory of crimson light. The hills cast long shadows. Squarcia smashed through the crowd that fled and left them behind, and plunged into the gap of the hills which Castracane had taken. Through the dust-cloud in front Lionardo could see splashes of red. They gained some ground before they had to ease their horses to a trot. Then, as the light went out of the sky and the shadows deepened, the dust-cloud vanished in gloom, but the sound told that it kept its distance. So they rode on through the night, straining ears and eyes. More than once Squarcia quickened to a gallop. But if they drew up at first, Castracane drew away again later. They rode over more than one wretch whose horse had failed. But the main body kept well away.
And yet hope was stirring in Lionardo's heart. That joy in victory which passes silent from man to man had hold of him now. They had won their long battle after all; conquered utterly. Squarcia had "done his best," indeed. Squarcia would not fail now. In this new flush of hope, in the hot passion of pursuit, Lionardo forgot his pain. They would save Lucrezia yet. That night, that very night, he would hold her in his arms ... unhurt.
Squarcia leaned back in his saddle and passed the word for the colonel of the regiment. "I leave you the two first squadrons," he growled. "Hold the pace! Hunt him home! Never let him scatter! Never let him stand! I want them all driven to Castagnaro. Now pass the word for the third and fourth squadrons to halt." Then he touched Lionardo's arm. "Draw off with me, Messer Lionardo." Squarcia, Lionardo, squires, drew to one side and halted in a bunch while the first two squadrons swept by without a check. The third and fourth squadrons came up. "In close order! By double file, officers on the flanks! Squarcia led off up the hillside.
There was no track, but the rough pasture gave good enough footing. The long line of mail glimmering faint in the gloom climbed slowly up the heights; up and up, till the dull sound of flight and pursuit was lost and the valley a black gulf below; up and up, till the air bit cold. They came upon level ground. "At the trot!" said Squarcia over his shoulder. Jingle and clatter began to echo among the hills.
There was no moon. It was too dark to see landmarks. All peaks were alike, masses of deeper gloom in the gloom. But Squarcia, looking aloft to the stars, led right on without a halt. Orion glittered clear on their path. The roar of a torrent sounded. The ground began to slope downward, steeper and steeper. "At the walk!" said Squarcia. The clatter was hushed.
Down they went. "Down to Hell, by the Pope!" Lionardo heard a man say, and an officer's growl, "It will be, unless you hold your tongue." Down into a fathomless black gulf. Now they stumbled upon a vineyard, and Lionardo heard Squarcia swear through the crash of vines and trees. Out of that at last and into some soft pasture, and behold lights hung above them in mid-air.
Squarcia gripped Lionardo's arm. "Castagnaro!" he muttered.
Still they rode on and on till the castle crag loomed dimly through the darkness. A whispered "Halt!" rang along the line. Squarcia's officers gathered round him. "Dismounted---line the zigzag---silent---we enter with Castracane---no shout till I shout.---Giacomo, you will kill the warders at the gate and hold it open.---Hugo, you will bring the first two squadrons in after us."
There was a rustle about the horses. Then scarce another sound. By ones and twos that much experienced soldiery crept through the night and disposed itself among the crags at the side of the zigzag road to the castle gate. Lionardo found himself lying by Squarcia's side amid the stalwart six who went always where Squarcia went. The stillness of night brooded over all.
They had not long to wait. The sound of horsemen came up the valley, louder and louder yet, till it grew to a thunder and the earth began to shake; now the sound of the pursuers came; now the thunder broke into clatter and thud; now---now Castracane's first files were turning up the zigzag path. Slowly, strangely slowly, they seemed to come. Lights were moving on the castle walls.
"Warders! Ho, warders!" It was Castracane's voice. "Open!---open!"
"In what name?" came the challenge from the walls.
"In the name of the Wolf and the Devil"!
Castracane's lean, bent form passed round the turn of the path. His horse near trod on Lionardo's hand. The gate groaned and swung open. A glimmer of lanterns strove with the dark. By their light, Lionardo saw that Castracane had a bundle across the saddle before him. Castracane rode into the gateway.
Lionardo started up. Squarcia and the six were up by his side. Quickest afoot of them all, Lionardo sprang after Castracane. All along the path men rose out of the ground and mingled with Castracane's squadron, and, silent all, began to slay, thrusting up under the armpit skilfully. Killing as they went, silent, they struggled up and into the castle. But Castracane's men were yelling and reeling in panic. Some of them tried to turn and flee downward, some of them tried to spur up, and the tired horses stumbled and slipped and men were hurled from their saddles to the crags. With them all was chaos and fear. But among them, bright mail glinting in the darkness, moved Squarcia's men, silent, purposeful, killing, killing. Giacomo and his party had slain the warders and flung the gate wide and jammed the hinges. Over a pathway of dead, Squarcia's men made their way in and stormed up the towers to make an end of the scanty garrison.
In the castle courtyard Lionardo caught up Castracane and sprang at him. Just then came the first yell from behind. Castracane screamed an oath and drew his dagger, and was striking at the bundle on his saddle, a woman closely bound. Lionardo gripped his arm. Castracane drove in his spurs and broke across the courtyard and through a narrow archway, dragging Lionardo with him.
The foul smell of leopards and wolves caught Lionardo's nostrils. At the sound of the horse the beasts began to bark and growl. Lionardo clung to Castracane, gripping his dagger hand and striving to tear the woman away. The horse slipped on the greasy stones and reeled. Lionardo had the woman free at last and sprang back with her full into Squarcia's arms.
"Take her!" said Lionardo through his teeth, and whipped out his sword.
But as he turned Castracane sprang full upon him out of the blackness and caught him in his arms and heaved him off the ground. Castracane tried to throw him, but Lionardo clung close. They reeled together, this way and that; then together they fell into a black gulf where wolves were baying.
Squarcia, holding the woman in the hollow of his arm, roared out, "Squarcia!---Squarcia! Rally on me! Lanterns!---lanterns!"
Lanterns came, and he saw Cecilia's white face, sunken, and stained with tears and dust. "You, child!" he growled, and kissed her forehead. Cecilia clung to him and sobbed. But he put her into other hands. "Cut her bonds! Guard her well!---Guido, find me the Countess Lucrezia." He snatched the lanterns and went carefully to the edge of the wolf-pit.
The feeble light would not pierce far. Out of the gloom below came fierce growling and snapping and the scuffle and scratch of the beasts' feet. "Ropes!" said Squarcia to the man beside him. But then he shrugged his shoulders and frowned and bit his lip. "And I had come to love the lad," he muttered. The growl of the fighting beasts grew deeper.
A man came running with an armful of picket ropes. "Volunteers for the Duke of Vellano!" said Squarcia, and gave his lanterns to another hand and began to make a noose for himself.
Then into the feeble light, climbing up the side of the pit, came Lionardo himself. A cheer roared out, a rope was flung, he stood again on the brink. His face was spattered with blood, he had his dripping sword in his teeth, he had lost his helmet, one sleeve was rent from him. He tore off a piece of the hanging cloth and wiped his sword on it. He began to brush the filth from his hair.
"There is peace in Castagnaro," he said.
Out of the pit came the growl of the wolves over meat.
Then up strode Guido to make his report. "Sir, the Countess Lucrezia was not with this party," he said.
"Lucrezia?" Lionardo gasped. "Squarcia, I gave her to you!"
"That was Cecilia," said Squarcia.
Lionardo swayed and fell fainting.
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RAMIRO CAPUCCI, you remember, stole a horse. Thereon he removed himself from Squarcia's army and fetched a compass about the battle and came through a wood to Castracane's rear. He halted there and surveyed with placid appreciation the rival tactics. After a while one of Castracane's horsemen came by. Ramiro gave a sigh of relief and followed and slew him neatly. From the saddle he took the dead man's provision of food and wine, then, dismounting, stripped the stiffening body and over his own white and gold put on the red and black of Castracane.
Thus adorned he came nearer the battle and saw with critical approval Francesco's charge, and knew at once that the day was lost and won. With an appearance of great haste he arrived among his red and black comrades. He hurried hither and thither till he found what he wanted. Close behind the centre Lucrezia and another woman lay bound with sentries over them. Ramiro wondered a moment who the other was, and then chuckled. For Lucrezia's posture appeared to him comical.
And then he played the zealous orderly no more. He effaced himself. The army was breaking into chaos. Castracane gathered his guard about him, seized Cecilia himself, bade one of his men take Lucrezia, and went off at speed. As he passed, Ramiro Capucci saw the lean, livid, hairless face distorted by the rage of defeat.
"Probably he never was beautiful," said Ramiro to himself. Then, without ostentation, he, too, made one of Castracane's guard. He, too, joined in the flight. His neighbours were in far too great a hurry to object to him.
Ere they turned into the gap of the hills, Ramiro glanced back and saw Squarcia, with his fresh regiment of horse, turn away from the battle and strike straight after them. "I have always heard he was a soldier," Ramiro reflected. "I never believed it till to-day." He was little given to believing in other people. "But there are limits, my Lord Squarcia, there are limits---and I think you are going to find them."
Ramiro kept his humble place in the rear till night fell---till all were wrapped in gloom. Then slowly he began to work forward through the uneven ranks. He came to the front, and then checking again, picked out Castracane. Castracane had the other woman. Neither in her nor him had Ramiro any interest. Just behind Castracane, a little to his left, another man had Lucrezia across his saddle.
Ramiro checked his horse sharply, then sharply spurred; produced the effect of a long stagger, and flung the ranks into disorder---from which he emerged by the side of the man with Lucrezia. Ramiro tucked his reins under his leg and took his dagger. He dared not strike high lest even in the dark the steel should gleam. With his left hand he drove the dagger into the man's groin. With his right he snatched at Lucrezia. The man lurched upon him and fell out of the saddle, and the ranks rode over him. In the darkness none knew who had fallen, nor how; none cared. They were in flight.
Ramiro found his reins again and slowly edged off to the left flank. Lucrezia, close bound hand and foot, hung across his saddle, face downward, like a limp corpse. Once clear of the ranks Ramiro checked and let the flight go by. Then he turned off at a right angle and began to climb the hillside.
Four hundred feet up he halted and listened. Squarcia's two first squadrons were thundering by below. Ramiro smiled in the dark. "Yes, my Lord Squarcia, I think you will find there are limits," said he to himself, and dismounted and lifted Lucrezia down. She lay quite still. Ramiro tethered his horse to a tree, took food and wine-bottle from the saddle, and came to her again and cut the tight cords at ankle and wrist. Then, on one knee beside her, he lifted her head and poured wine into her mouth. She gasped.
"Oh---oh---my hands and my feet!"
"That is the worst pain you have now to bear," said Ramiro calmly.
"You---Ramiro!---you!" she cried.
"Even I," said Ramiro, and put his arm round her.
"Let me prove myself," and he kissed her lips. She struggled feebly, but he held her. She began to sob. "That is superfluous. You are quite safe," said he.
"No!---no!---no!" She shrank away from him.
Ramiro let her lie back in his arm and looked down at her, his eyes flaming in the dark. "You are safe! I saved you! I dared what no one else dared! I came alone and cut you out of Castracane's hands. I---"
"You---you---are no better," she sobbed, and turned to escape his eyes.
Ramiro held her panting against him, and took her wet, quivering face in his hand and brought it close to his own. "Once I thought you loved me." She felt his hot breath, the hard grip of his hand at her breast.
"I---I---once I thought so, too---God forgive me!" she gasped.
Ramiro loosed her and rose and stood over her. She did not see his crooked smile. "You are not flattering, countess,"he said. She hid her face in her hands and wept. "So it seems I was wrong to think or speak of your safety. I should have told you first that his heroical Highness of Vellano is safe."
"Ah, is it true?---is it true?" Her voice throbbed with joy; she started up and clung to his hands.
Ramiro laughed. "What bliss, is it not? I saw the hero safe with Squarcia."
"And he sent you for me?" she cried.
"No, by Hell!" Ramiro snapped. "I came by my own will and my own wits. Oh, his Highness is doubtless God. Pray permit me to be a man."
But Lucrezia only asked again, "It is indeed true? He is safe?"
"Your anxiety is most charming. He is as safe as you or I."
"Thank God!" Lucrezia murmured---"thank God!"
"Well, countess, you do not seem likely to thank me. And the night is waning. You were best asleep." He took the rug from behind the saddle and spread it for her and made a rough pillow with his holsters. Then he signed to her to lie down.
"I---I---no---perhaps---I---" she stammered; "you see---I---"
"It is doubtless difficult to trust my honour. Pray try, countess! And I will try, too!"
Lucrezia looked up at him through the gloom, looked long. Then she touched his hand timidly. "I do trust you," she said, and laid herself down and stretched her weary form with a long sigh of content. Ramiro wrapped the rug about her.
So she slept on the hillside, and Ramiro Capucci watched over her and heard her gentle breath all night long.
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IF you would learn how Squarcia and Lionardo, came to Zena, go back now to the bivouac on the hillside. There the pickets, you remember, had caught a monk seeking Castracane, and searching him, they found upon him a letter. This letter Bernardo Bruni took, and broke the seal and read it. Then he smiled. "This is very charming," said he; "have you any more?" The soldiers fell upon the dishevelled monk again, but there was no more to find. So, "Take him away," said Bernardo Bruni; "he is not at all beautiful." Then he gave the letter to Squarcia and Lionardo, who read it together. This it was:--- "To Jacopo Castracane, Marquis of Frido, present these: "The thing has come quicker than I thought. Our good Count Francesco is in the monastery already, and thinks of nothing but making himself monk. Yet I have some fear for his wife and the people when they learn of it. So send me troops at speed. Do not wait for Holy Week. DONATO, PRIOR.
"From Zena, this 12th day of April."
"One more damned rogue!" said Squarcia.
"A very lucid gentleman," said Bernardo Bruni.
Lionardo was silent. Francesco a monk? The man whom Beatrice loved resign her? A mouth before he might have lost himself in contemplation of Beatrice's unworthy choice---of the tragedy of his own worthier love disdained---of a thousand and one emotions.
Now his mind gripped at facts. Long ago Castracane had sought to murder Francesco. Long ago Castracane had coveted Zena. Here was a new plot to oust Francesco, to break his life. He might be a fool. No matter for that. The immediate need was to save him.
"I take it, gentlemen, we go now to Zena," said Lionardo sharply.
The two soldiers looked at him, smiling.
"Well, Messer Lionardo, now you have waked up, you are awake," said Squarcia. "But who goes softly goes farthest." And he began to talk strategy.
This was the conclusion: The herald was sent back to Vellano, at speed, bearing a letter to Lionardo's chancellor that bade him make ready for war and give the command to Bernardo Bruni; Bernardo followed himself, but on the way he was to despatch Squarcia's footmen to Zena: thither with all the horse went Squarcia and Lionardo, and they took with them Cecilia da Castiglione. How they came to Zena in time you have seen.
Go back now to that room in the "Vineyard" inn, where the prior's swollen eyes are looking into Lionardo's.
"Castracane and you and we?" said Lionardo politely.
"We---we---we shall be invincible." The prior stammered the end of his sentence.
"So noble a company of rogues deserve to be," Lionardo admitted.
"Surely, sir, we are allies?"
"That, reverend father, is your first mistake."
"Then, sir," cried the prior, recoiling --- "then, sir, what do you do here in arms?"
"That, reverend father, you are about to learn."
The prior recovered his usual haughtiness. He turned half away from Lionardo and faced Squarcia and Lionardo both. "I infer that you have gained entry by a trick. With what---"
Squarcia was on his legs and roaring: "Trick? What are you to talk of tricks? Look you, Master Monk, I am Squarcia. I am here with the good will of the Countess Beatrice. I give no more account to any man. But you, by Pompey!---you shall give account to me! What have you done with the Count Francesco?"
"I know no right of yours to question me."
Squarcia gripped him and turned him to the window and pointed down to the men in bivouac. "There is my right! Five hundred of them!"
The prior shrugged his shoulders and looked full in Squarcia's eyes. "How often you bullies mistake your man!" he sneered.
"I never mistake a knave!" quoth Squarcia.
The Dominican wrenched his arm away and marched stately to the door. But Lionardo stood before it. "Do you deny me passage, sir?" the monk thundered.
"With the best will in the world," said Lionardo.
The Dominican glared at him. "Well, Master Monk," said Squarcia placidly, from behind, "what have you done with the Count Francesco?"
"I answer no bully's questions," said the prior haughtily. "The Count Francesco is where he is by his own will and pleasure. Of what I have done for him, I owe no account save to God."
"To whom," said Lionardo politely, "you have explained your alliance with Castracane."
"Sir, God is my judge; not you."
"I doubt it may be the worse for you," said Lionardo.
"Enough cant," said Squarcia, and put his head out of the window and shouted, "Corporal's guard!"
"Sir!" The prior whirled round upon him. "Do you dare to lay hands upon me? I am a prior of the Dominican order."
"Master Monk, I know nothing of priors; but I know a knave when I see him."
"Who touches me touches the Church. Violence to me is violence to the sacred body of God."
Squarcia blazed out at him with an oath. "You---you liar---you traitor---you scum---you dare to couple your name with God's!" And he swore, while the Dominican cursed him in set ecclesiastical phrase.
The corporal's guard came in. "That---take that"---Squarcia pointed to the monk --- "put it in the cellar. Put a guard over it."
"My children, put no profane hand on me!" cried the prior.
"We will put four, father. That will do for you," said the corporal, and the prior was hustled, cursing, away.
Squarcia puffed out his breath. "That rogue stinks he said.
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WHILE Ramiro and Lucrezia sped on to the pine-wood, Lionardo reined in his horse and dropped farther and farther behind. They were full two hundred yards ahead of him when they vanished into the shadows. Lionardo jogged on, and nearer and swiftly nearer came the pursuing horsemen. It appeared to them that Lionardo was flogging a worn-out horse. Certainly Lionardo kept looking at them over his shoulder, like one possessed with fear. They howled at him and spurred on.
Now Lionardo, too, was into the wood. He let his horse out a little, he began to edge up the hillside. The pursuers could not hold their headlong pace in among the trees, and now Lionardo kept his distance---some fifty yards' law. He tried to gain no more for fear that he should fail to draw them all after him. So like a fox in sight of the hounds he kept them keen upon his track. He worked steadily up the hill.
The trees were thinner, the sunlight came clear. He rode out upon coarse short grass, broken here and there with bare limestone. He glanced back. They were all after him still. Lucrezia must now be safe. He began to think of himself. Far away the white line of a waterfall caught his eye. Below it the hill gaped. Lionardo's heart grew hot. He had no wish to die if he could live, and here was salvation. The hill was cleft with a deep ravine. Lionardo peered through the sunlight, then struck away to the left and gathered his horse together and set him at the leap.
They were over, with a foot to spare.
Lionardo turned swiftly and waited, sword drawn, a horse's length from the edge, for who should follow.
An unhappy gentleman then experienced the disadvantage of being second. For he, following Lionardo, brought his horse to the leap and landed fairly on the farther side; but a sword was waiting for him, and he met the point with his neck and fell backward and rolled down into the ravine.
Two more tried the leap, but they never came to Lionardo's sword at all. Their horses leapt short, and, clawing madly upon the edge, went down to crash upon the rocks in the torrent's bed.
Now with horses refusing and horses suddenly checked there was chaos on the nearer side. Some rode this way and that along the ravine, seeking an easier leap. But Lionardo had well chosen his place. On either hand the gulf widened. Only where he waited with ready sword could a horse dare venture. Even at that, as they had proved, a horse might well fail.
The situation was difficult to gentlemen who put some value on their lives. They debated together awhile, while Lionardo waited at his ease. Then they solved the problem by turning tail---a score of men from one.
"I commend your discretion, gentlemen," Lionardo shouted after them, "if not your zeal." Then he, too, rode off.
His eyes he thought were alert as a hawk's, his ears as watchful as Squarcia's own. But while he rode round the edge of a wood, horsemen suddenly burst upon him, his neck was locked in a man's arm, a dagger point trembled at his eye.
Then, "Asses all," said a genial voice. "'Tis---"
"The devil it is!" Arm and dagger fell away from him. "Pray you keep a still tongue, sir, or they will jeer at us all the saints' days."
They were some of Squarcia's very capable horsemen.
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SQUARCIA'S horsemen closed, cheering and waving their helmets. Lucrezia was blushing and laughing, wet-eyed.
"Files about, my children!" quoth Squarcia, and they turned and rode back to the castle.
Lucrezia and Lionardo close at last, hearts leaping, felt no need of words. Suddenly, as if they had been talking of other matters, "Ah, but did you save the other woman?" Lucrezia cried.
"Ay, thank God!"
"Yes!---yes! ... Who was she?"
"The Marchioness of Frido --- Cecilia da Castiglione."
Lucrezia murmured, "Thank God!---thank God!" again. Then, "And truly, my Lord, you are not hurt?"
Lionardo looked back into her eyes.
They came to Castagnaro, and in the hall there, a very lonely little woman, sat Cecilia. She saw Lucrezia come in on Lionardo's arm, and sprang up and ran to her, crying, "You, too! Oh, and I had been so afraid for you!"
Lucrezia left Lionardo and ran to meet her, opening her arms. "My dear!" she cried---"my dear!" The women clung together, kissing and crying....
Not without envy Lionardo looked. Squarcia tapped his arm. "Come away!" he grunted. "Woman turns to woman till she is wed." And he took Lionardo off to explore Castagnaro, its ugly relics of devilry, its rich treasures.
Afterward he came back to Cecilia. "Will it please your Highness to honour me with your company?" says he gravely.
Cecilia blushed to her hair. "You are laughing at me!"
"I am treating you," said Squarcia gravely, "as the Marchioness of Frido."
"Have I to be that?" said Cecilia timidly.
"Are you sorry?" Squarcia looked down at the little wistful face.
"No, perhaps I am not sorry," said Cecilia very softly. She rose. "Where am I to go?"
Squarcia laughed. "Here is a brave way to command!" He gave her his arm, and she held it close. They went across the courtyard and down a winding stair and along a passageway lighted by torches. More than once when they passed doors gaping in the wall Cecilia shivered and snatched his arm closer, and he felt her hand cold on his.
"Must I---must I go on?" she gasped. "Ah, you do not know what I have seen here!"
"Child, all that is past---dead; dead with Castracane. Come!" A little farther and they came past a sentry and over a battered door to a vaulted chamber, where stood many a dark, iron-clamped chest. Squarcia threw back one burst lid and took a torch from its socket. The light fell on broad gold pieces. "Messer Lionardo guesses the sum of them all at a hundred and fifty thousand florins. The treasure of your Highness."
"Will you have it, please?" said Cecilia.
Squarcia started. "The devil! No!" he roared.
"Then, let us go away," said Cecilia.
"I am an old fool, child! I thought it would please you!"
"Indeed, you are not old!" cried Cecilia, indignant.
"Well, come away!"
"Yes!" She clung close to him as they went again through that narrow gloomy passage. "You---you say I am marchioness. I can have my will. Yes? Then, take me away from here! I---I hate it! I am afraid!"
"You shall go to-morrow. But there is no more to fear, child! No more, now!"
She touched his arm timidly.
They came to the light again, and at once an officer hurried to Squarcia to say that a brigade was coming up the valley.
Below the castle halted horsemen in Zena's blue and grey, a regiment of Squarcia's pikemen, a company of arquebusiers, all hot and dusty from the march. Francesco, with an officer or two, came spurring up the path, and Squarcia went to meet him.
"Did you save her?" cried Francesco.
"Messer Lionardo did that!" said Squarcia. Francesco's haggard face broke in a smile. "Yes, my friend, we took all the stakes---Cecilia, Lucrezia, Castagnaro."
"And Castracane?"
"He is in the wolves' bellies. And the army?"
"Bernardo Bruni smashed it in pieces, and is marching on Frido."
"He is very thorough, my Bernardo!" Squarcia chuckled. "Well, Messer Francesco, he and I were the generals, but you won the battle. Come and tell Cec---the Marchioness of Frido all about it."
"I must speak to her," said Francesco.
Cecilia was sitting with Lucrezia, her hand in Lucrezia's, her dark curls on Lucrezia's shoulder, and as he saw and started and flushed, Francesco knew that Lucrezia had never been so beautiful. There was a new grace in her form as she sat, sheltering the girl against her side; a tender glow in her dark eyes.
"Your Highnesses both---the Count of Zena," said Squarcia in the manner of an usher.
Francesco knelt before Cecilia and took her hand. "I pray you, forgive me!"
"Indeed---indeed, I have nothing to forgive! Oh, you must not think that I went away because I did not like you. I was afraid I---I---" she blushed --- "I was hindering. Please go back to Beatrice. She loves you; indeed, she loves you!"
Francesco rose. "I thank you! I will go back to Beatrice when I have finished my work."
"Your work?"
Francesco turned to Squarcia. "I must beg you allow me help to stamp out Castracane's army."
"With the best will in the world, by Pompey! Faith! what a zeal there is for work. There is Messer Lionardo, who has forsaken us all," he cocked a small humorous eye at Lucrezia, "to wade through Castracane's papers."
"The Duke of Vellano is always zealous to work for others," said Lucrezia severely.
A soldier, a somewhat dusty soldier, came in in a hurry. "Sir, we have found it at last!" He held up an old flag, the banner of the Castiglioni, three white roses on sable.
"What is it?" said Cecilia.
"The old standard of Frido, your Highness's standard.---Away, Giovanni! Down with my banner, up with that!"
The soldier saluted and was turning. "No!" cried Cecilia, starting up---"no! Yours shall not come down!" Her eyes were sparkling, blood surged in her cheeks.
Squarcia looked at her a moment, then drew himself up and saluted. "Take your orders from the Marchioness of Frido, Giovanni," he said; and the soldier saluted and went out. "And now, Messer Francesco, come and talk soldiering over a map," said he.
But when hours after, as it was drawing to dusk, Francesco and he crossed the courtyard again he saw Cecilia's banner and his, the white roses and the red, flying side by side. "What the devil is this, Giovanni?" he growled.
"I have taken my orders from the Marchioness of Frido, sir," said Giovanni solemnly.
Squarcia grunted.
The next morning when they left Castagnaro the banners floated still together. The arquebusiers and pikemen were left in garrison; all the horsemen made an escort for the two litters that bore Lucrezia and Cecilia.
Lionardo rode at Squarcia's side. "I hope they will let us into Frido," said he; "even a Frido tailor would be grateful," and he looked at his grey-green clothes, much stained with blood, patched as to one arm and many smaller rents with most varied specimens of cloth. "You know, I understand now much that is unamiable in the character of Joseph. The poor soul had to endure a coat of many colours."
Squarcia's answer did not refer to Joseph. "What!" said he, "do you suppose she cares what coat you wear?"
"I have dared to hope that she will," said Lionardo, and went off to ride by her side.
That afternoon a quartet of horsemen, dusty, foam-spattered, came upon them, and a letter was given to Squarcia:--- "Poggio Nardi is into Frido, and I shall be to-night."BERNARDO.
"Corpus Christi Day."
So they marched onward, driving from their road broken companies of Castracane's men.
All through two long days of late spring Lucrezia and Lionardo were side by side, tasting the piquant joy of that time when man and maid each know, though the word is yet to speak.
The walls of Frido were in sight, Bernardo Bruni marching to meet them. Squarcia drew up to Lucrezia's litter. "Messer Lionardo, give another man room for a moment." Lionardo went ahead, and Lucrezia's colour deepened. "Lady, I want to pray you be kind to that child, till---till---" He was in some difficulty.
"Sir," said Lucrezia meekly, "may I not be kind to her after---after---"
Squarcia shifted awkwardly in his saddle. He appeared discomposed. Then he turned and looked at her full. "You are very much a woman," said he.
"That is the finest compliment I have ever had."
"It is the best in the world," said Squarcia.
"Save one!" said Lucrezia. "Indeed, sir, I will be kind; but you need not have asked," and she held out her hand.
Squarcia kissed it and galloped off to Bernardo Bruni. They two in due time arrived, side by side, Squarcia's arm on Bernardo's shoulder, at Cecilia's litter. "Your Highness, I present my lieutenant Bernardo Bruni, who will serve you in all things."
Bernardo saluted. "With all my strength," he said gravely.
"While I finish this war and bring peace to your Highness's realm."
"Oh, must you?" cried Cecilia.
"I must finish my work," said Squarcia. Then he saluted and rode off.
Bernardo, watching her, saw tears come in her eyes, and at once looked away. "I dare assure your Highness that the work will not be many days a-doing," said he.
Her eyes glistened.
Squarcia and Francesco drew off with their horsemen. That night began the steady, tireless patrol of valley and hill that stamped out the last embers of war and brought peace back to the countryside.
Bernardo's men made their escort into Frido. Bernardo was at Lionardo's elbow. "So you are bringing Heaven with you, now?" said he.
"That is entirely true."
"Well, you deserve it better than most of us. I hope you will contrive to be on earth enough to help me get a hold of this government. I gave myself a headache in half an hour this morning over the schedules of taxes. And Squarcia wants me to make ready for a coronation of the marchioness."
"And we, my dear Bernardo, will provide a marquis."
"Eh, what? But will he take it?"
"I think we can leave that to her."
They rode into Frido, and as they came broke out a storm of cheers. From housetops and windows kerchiefs waved and flowers fell on the litters---fragrant white roses. Castracane had made himself hated and feared and obeyed; but the old genial rule of the Castiglioni had been the golden age of Frido.
Wide-eyed, wondering, half-frightened, Cecilia leaned out of her litter toward Lucrezia. "Why---why---Is it for me?" she whispered.
"They are so glad of you, dear!"
"Oh, that is good!" The girl lay back on her cushions with shining eyes and glowing cheeks.
And so the Marchioness of Frido came back to her town.
The next day she sent for Bernardo Bruni, and when he came promptly, looked frightened. "Sir, my Lord Squarcia said that---that I---that you would do my will."
"Entirely, your Highness!"
"I---I want to send a letter to the Countess of Zena and---and I think then she might come here. Could there be soldiers to bring her safe? And then---and when she is coming, could you send to Count Francesco to ask him to come, too? Not till she is coming, because I want them to come just together. I---I do not see quite how to do it---but---do you see?"
"If your Highness will give me the letter, the rest is done," said Bernardo.
"Oh, I---I have the letter ready." She gave it to him. "Thank you---thank you very much! You are so---so quick and ready, and I am troubling you and---and---" She blushed and lost her sentence.
"Lady, you wrong us!" Bernardo dropped his soldier's tone and spoke gently. "You wrong us in thinking we are not most glad to be able to serve you."
"Thank you!" said Cecilia softly, and held out her hand.
This was her letter:---
"BEATRICE:"Please---please forgive me, and come back to me! I do want you!CECILIA."
Bernardo sent off a squadron and went back to Lionardo, whom he found cumbered with many papers. Bernardo sat on the table. "You look very forlorn," said he, "and so am I!"
"What I want," said Lionardo, "is a secretary."
"What I want," said Bernardo, "is his daughter."
"You are sitting on the pens," said Lionardo.
Bernardo jumped.
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Go back now to Zena on the day of Cecilia's flight.
"My lady, I cannot find the Lady Cecilia."
"Do you want her, Lisa?" Lazily Beatrice turned her beautiful head.
"No, my lady. But I cannot find her."
"Why not be content?"
"My lady, she has left this letter on her table."
Beatrice took it carelessly and read:
"To the Countess:"Indeed, I never meant to hurt you! I do want you and the count to be very happy. Indeed, I did not know I was hindering! Now I have gone, I do hope it will be all well. Please forgive me. Please do not hate me now!"CECILIA."
Beatrice sat staring at the words, and slowly her face grew crimson. Her own conscience judged and condemned her. To think evil of that poor child, to be cruel to her---what black meanness was this! The girl who had kept herself pure in heart amid all the filth of Castracane's den---to think evil of her! The poor child who had never known kindness in all her life, who had come to her for a mother's love---to be cruel to her! Beatrice's hands trembled, and her tears fell on the paper.... All pride was reft from her now, all self-deceit and cozening.... She saw herself clear.... She owned herself vile, worse far than those she had scorned. She was humbled utterly.
"My lady," Lisa was crying---"my lady, I cannot find her! She is not in the palace! Has she gone, indeed?"
"Yes, she has gone," said Beatrice in a strange choked voice.
"O my lady!" Lisa sobbed. "She---she said none of us loved her! She must have gone to Squarcia."
"To Squarcia?" cried Beatrice, starting up---"to Squarcia? Alone? But there is war. It would not be safe. She could not venture!"
"My lady!" Lisa laughed through her sobs. "She loves him!"
Beatrice ran out of the room; ran to Francesco. He looked up from his papers, amazed, as she burst in. She thrust the letter into his hands. "Read!" she gasped, and all trembling watched his cheeks pale. "She has gone---she has gone alone---Lisa says she would go to Squarcia!"
"To Squarcia!" Francesco muttered hoarsely. "And Castracane's riders are on all the roads!" He clapped his hands sharply, to summon his squire.
"Castracane?" Beatrice cried. "Ah, God, not that!" She gazed at Francesco, and her bosom beat stormily. She tried to speak with pallid trembling lips. "O Francesco, forgive me!" she moaned, and caught his hands.
"It is not I who can forgive."
"Ah, I know! I was base and vile to her. But you, Francesco, I wronged you too---I wronged you---" she faltered. "Yes!---yes! And before as well. I was hard and cruel and---Francesco, I pray you for all---!"
His eyes glowed to hers, but he turned away, loosing her hands gently. "It is no time for this. Lady, the child was trusted to us. Your honour and mine are touched." His squire came in. "Find her I must. Carlo, sound the trumpets for the guard to march. Send Lodovico at the gallop to call out my regiment of horse." He hurried off to don his mail.
Beatrice stood alone, with her hand to her breast. Even in her sorrow came a quick throb of joy. He was a man now, masterful and strong. And now he was in the right, and she in her folly, her vile thoughts, utterly wrong. Ah, thank God!---thank God! The folly and shame were hers now. Francesco was in the right. And that was happiness. That she should fall and sin, why that (she gave a little sad laugh)---that was in nature. But Francesco was doing nobly. Never in all the days when she prided herself on her own goodness had she been glad as now.... But even as joy possessed her the thought of Cecilia's peril came back to wring her heart. She fell on her knees and sobbing, weeping, prayed.
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"HERE'S to the Rose! The Red Rose! Never his match in Christenty!" The toast ran round ere Squarcia's men in Castagnaro lay down to sleep. They were very pleased with Squarcia.
But Squarcia himself was not satisfied. He had Cecilia sleeping safe and sound; and also Castracane was dead and his army in fragments. But Squarcia, making his supper of three pounds of dried beef, stopped more than once to sigh. "Poor lad!" said he---"poor lad!" He thought of Lionardo and Lucrezia. Tilting the last of his wine, he looked at the red of it. "By Heaven! I ought to have had her, too," he muttered, frowning. Then drank up the wine and rolled on to his knees.
"Pater noster qui es in caelis sanctificetur nomen tuum---"
That was the end of all his fights.
Squarcia was early astir. He had what was left of Castracane's garrison set to digging graves for their comrades; he appointed some of his own men to guard Cecilia and the castle; he bade the rest get to horse; in the midst of which Lionardo came, pale-faced, in torn, stained clothes.
"Faith, Messer Lionardo, you are not fit to ride.
"I must!" said Lionardo. Then fiercely he caught Squarcia's arm: "Man, to know nothing, that is the torment of it! I must know, even if it is the worst---though what would be the worst I cannot tell. Let me come!"
So they rode out, flinging a wide net of horsemen from hill to hill.
- - - - - -
Away on the hillside Lucrezia woke and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and saw Ramiro sitting beside her. He had cast off Castracane's livery; he wore again her own white and gold. His face was pale and sunken, but his dark eyes flamed.
"I salute your Highness! There is a stream hard by, with water that I can commend."
Pink and white from the cold mountain stream she came. back. Her glorious golden hair was neatly bound again, her eyes sparkled, there was life in her walk.
"I give his Highness of Vellano joy," said Ramiro gravely, and made the pink of her cheeks crimson.
Ramiro cut coarse bread and meat and gave it her, and she ate hungrily. They said no word over that rough breakfast. Ramiro rose soon and busied himself saddling the horse.
"At your Highness's pleasure," he said, seeing that she had done.
She came to him; then with a quick movement she caught his hand. Her eyes were shining. "Ramiro, I cannot thank you! I---"
Ramiro drew his hand away and laughed harshly.
"Thanks would be a little more than I can bear."
Then she was mounted behind him, and they rode away. The sun was high in a cloudless sky, and up in the white light larks were singing. They had but gone a mile or two when Ramiro marked a line of flashes across the hills. "My temptation, your Highness, is about to conclude," said he, and quickened the pace.
Soon the long line of Squarcia's horsemen was revealed. Some of them saw Ramiro's white and gold from afar, and came at a gallop---Squarcia, Lionardo, others. Ramiro reined up and waited for them. Lionardo was first.
"Ramiro? The countess?" he cried.
"As your eyes inform you," said Ramiro coolly.
"Ramiro Capucci, by Pompey!" Squarcia roared.
Ramiro reined alongside Lionardo. "Who comes to offer her Highness of Noventa to his Highness of Vellano," he said, and took Lucrezia in his arms and lifted her from his own horse to Lionardo's. He saw both man and woman blush; he saw the arm that had held by him go about Lionardo and cling close; he saw Lionardo lean back in his saddle and glistening eyes meet.
Ramiro drew away with a sneer and shrug. "May I inquire of the health of Castracane and Castagnaro?" he said to Squarcia.
"One dead! The other taken!"
"And how?"
"Two squadrons to drive him there. Two squadrons over the mountains to meet him when he got there."
Then Ramiro touched his hat. "I have had the misfortune, sir, to think too little of you. I see that you are worthy all you are likely to get in this world. I see also that my presence last night was, as it is now, superfluous." He touched his hat again and reined round.
"Ah, stay!---stay!" Lucrezia cried. "My lords, he saved me all alone! He came in among them by himself and won me away!"
"Ramiro, one moment---one moment at least!" cried Lionardo, for Ramiro was moving off; "do not make us so ungenerous."
"Oh, I thank your Highness!" said Ramiro over his shoulder. "There is nothing you would give that I would take."
"But, Ramiro," cried Lucrezia, "you will be my captain still?"
"Permit me to decline. I do not wish to disturb the felicity of his Highness of Vellano."
Squarcia spurred after him. "Look you, Messer Ramiro, I called you some ill names yesterday! I take them back, by Pompey!---I take them back! You are as brave as a man need be. And by Pompey and the Pope, I never knew a better deed!"
Ramiro bowed. "Sir, my salutations! I did not believe you yesterday. Forgive me if I do not believe you now. I do not attempt the impossible. But the possible I do." He gave his horse the spur. They watched him, a strong, soldierly figure, passing swiftly through the sunlight.
So Ramiro Capucci rode away---rode away to fame.
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FRANCESCO, you remember, was going out of the palace courtyard with Squarcia, unwilling, but nevertheless. "Sir!" said Francesco, "do you force me?"
Squarcia picked him off his feet and held him horizontal, tucked tight under one great arm.
"Sir!---sir!" the outraged Francesco gasped. "You constrain me!"
Squarcia chuckled. "That is so," said he, and gripped tighter.
Francesco did not resist. Resistance, strife, were permitted him no more. But suddenly he was ashamed. He, Francesco of Zena, to be tossed about with insult and ignominy at another man's will, and strike no blow to save himself! He had not counted on that. There were disadvantages in putting off the flesh.
Squarcia rolled off with him like a father with a naughty child for whipping. In the street there were many who looked and many who laughed---Francesco's subjects. By the time Squarcia had borne him into the inn and dropped him down, Francesco was flushed and panting, and he glared at Squarcia with an unholy light in his eyes.
Squarcia chuckled.
And so Squarcia began to deal with Francesco.
Thenceforward Francesco found that he had never a moment to be alone. Squarcia did not put him to open shame again, but wherever Squarcia was, there Francesco had to be. Francesco had to go the rounds with Squarcia and see Squarcia take the salute from the men who were guarding his own town. Francesco had to listen while Squarcia talked with his officers of the coming assault, and hear Squarcia, make his careful plans to save what Francesco himself should have kept safe. Francesco had to live in an atmosphere of war. The clash of arms was always in his ears, the sharp, soldierly voices.
No one insulted him; no one seemed to heed him at all. Only Squarcia spoke to him, and Squarcia talked of nothing but fighting. For the first day or more Francesco never answered. He was too proud to argue or plead that he might be let go, when he knew that argument and plea would be all in vain. He tried to retire into himself and work himself into an ecstasy, as though he were alone. But that was hard. Soldiers' songs and the din of armed men and the endless talk of fighting possessed his fancy against his will. A vile feeling of helplessness began to plague him. For the first time in his life he was being made to do what another bade him in every waking moment. He could not resent it, he must not struggle against it. He had cut himself off from the dearest right of a man---to fight for his own will. And he began to be very troubled.
Day by day the pair of them went the round of the walls, Francesco in his black monk's gown, and Squarcia in gleaming breastplate and helm. Day by day Francesco was less at ease.
One morning when they had gone out according to custom, Squarcia took him by the arm and led him through the palace. A little before the gate Francesco checked and hung back. "Not there!" he said, and his face was dark---"not there!"
"Why not?" growled Squarcia.
"I---I ought not," Francesco stammered.
"Ugh! Can you never think of anything but yourself?"
They turned into the courtyard. Squarcia, with Francesco still under his hand, was making for the door of the state apartments, when into the courtyard by the garden gate came Cecilia, the Marchioness of Frido. Squarcia wheeled and cut across her path and saluted. "And how is it with you, child?"
Her pretty, pathetic little face lit with joy. "Oh, but I am happy! Quite---quite happy! And it is so strange!"
Squarcia---for all his great bulk he was few inches taller than she---Squarcia was looking down at her with an odd tenderness. "It is going to be strange to be sad now," said he.
"Yes?" she said, like a question; and then, looking up at the great hairy face and the grey eyes, "Yes!" with conviction. "I think every one must always believe you."
Squarcia smiled and patted her shoulder. "Well, it is safe for you to believe me, at least!"
"I do," said Cecilia, and her blue eyes glistened.
"Believe and be joyful!" Squarcia laughed. "And the Countess Beatrice, she is good to you?"
"Oh, indeed, yes! She loves me; and---and---" she looked doubtfully at Squarcia's little twinkling eyes---"please do not laugh! I do want to be loved."
"Why, child, you will find love enough!" said Squarcia smiling.
Silent, she looked steadily into Squarcia's eyes. "I am not a child, you know," she said; and as she said it the blush came up her neck.
Squarcia laughed. "Be a child all the while you can," he said, and patted her hot cheek.
She turned quickly away, and then for the first time saw Francesco, who was standing behind Squarcia, and appeared very miserable. "Why, who is this?" she cried.
"That? Oh, that is nothing! Francesco, who used to be count in Zena."
Cecilia drew back as from something horrible, unclean. "You are Francesco?" Her voice was low. "Do you know how you have hurt her? Oh, how could you dare? Tell me! How could you dare?"
Francesco turned and hurried away.
"By Pompey! you have struck home," Squarcia laughed. "Well, child, I must catch him again. Goodbye." He kissed her carelessly on the forehead and rolled off.
Cecilia stood still, watching till he was out of sight.
Francesco was caught up just by the door of the inn; without persuasion or force he entered and led on to Squarcia's room, where weapons and mail stood glittering.
Squarcia dropped himself into a chair. "If I do not mistake, Messer Francesco, you ran away," said he.
Francesco took up one of Squarcia's swords and drew it. Squarcia leant forward ready to spring. But Francesco only traced the graven work on the blade with his finger, and looking down at it, spoke: "Sir, I wish---I---I---I would have you understand that when I---I did what I have done, it seemed to me the---the only way to do right." He stumbled, flushing, to the end of a muddled sentence.
For the first time Francesco had hinted a doubt of his own wisdom. For the first time Squarcia condescended to discussion. "Right?" said Squarcia, and sniffed---"right? Look you, Messer Francesco, I am as good a Catholic as any man alive. I say no word against monks. I have known a two or a three as good men as myself, by Pompey! But how it can be right for a man to forsake wife and babe for monkhood is what I do not see!"
Francesco was still discomposed. "Why, sir," he stammered, "I---I---for the sake of the holiness of my own soul---"
"Your own soul! God help any man who thinks of his own soul first."
Francesco, more discomposed than ever, stammered something more; but an officer had come in and saluted, and was saying something to Squarcia in a low voice apart. Squarcia nodded and rose. "And---and thus, sir, for the sake of my own soul's health---" Francesco continued.
"Your soul be damned! What of other people's?" Squarcia snapped.
Francesco now had no answer at all.
Squarcia took him by the arm. "Well, Messer Francesco," said he genially, "this is what it comes to: You have run away from your duty, and I have to do it for you. Come and see me!"
Out they went together, and a half-score of Squarcia's officers and men followed. Squarcia marched for the main gate of the town and there went up on the ramparts. Zena stands at the head of two valleys. Up the eastern valley an army was marching. Squarcia puckered his eyes and stared through the sunlight.
"Castracane!" cried Francesco, seeing the black and red break out.
"Oh, yes, Castracane!" Squarcia laughed and stared on.
Then Francesco, for all his monk's gown, roared out with a "Fiend seize him! Shut the gates!"
"What?---what? One trade at a time, Messer Francesco. You are a monk!"
"Sir!---sir---why, sir---" Francesco flushed and stammered again. "Will you not shut the gates!"
"No, I do not think I will shut the gates?" said Squarcia, staring still at Castracane's men.
The army came nearer, halted and broke. A regiment of horse pressed on to the town. The pikemen and bowmen rested on their arms. Straight for the open gate the horsemen rode at an easy pace till Francesco's gaping amazement turned to horror, and he caught Squarcia's arm, crying, "For God's sake---"
Squarcia shouted.
From below came the flash and thunderous roar of his gun. It was fired through the open gateway, and before the spreading shot of it the front of that regiment of horse broke and reeled and fell. The great gates of Zena clashed together; the portcullis thudded down. "Bowmen, bowmen, roundly together!" some one cried from the walls. While still the ranks of those hapless horsemen were all awry, a storm of cross-bow bolts smote them and shattered them and sent them galloping wildly for shelter behind the pikes.
"Break my banner!" grunted Squarcia; and at the word the red rose flaunted insolent in the sunshine. A cheer rolled along the ramparts. Castracane's army fell orderly back, well out of bow-shot.
Francesco looked up at Squarcia's banner and frowned. Another man's banner floating over the walls of Zena! Once he had never thought to see that. Squarcia's hand fell on his shoulder; Squarcia pointed to Castracane's men. "So, now, Messer Francesco, you see the holiness of your good prior! It is easy enough to grab the town whose master is a monk."
"I am not a monk!" Francesco snapped. "I am only a novice."
"Oho!---oho! Then praise God for all! Well, you see why the prior was concerned for your blessed soul. How you must love that prior!"
"Sir, I may have been cheated," said Francesco slowly; "but I blame myself for that. If I had thought of my duty, the prior could not have cheated me. I desire no vengeance on the prior. But it would be very just that I should suffer."
"God pays what wages He chooses, and God does not wait till Saturday to pay," quoth Squarcia, and turned away to watch the movements of his foe.
That army of red and black was skilfully handled. Just beyond bow-shot it lay and stretched itself all round the town. Before sunset all roads to Zena were blocked. At a score of points horsemen had dashed in to spy out weak places in the walls. Storms of bolts drove them off again, yet not before they had had some chance to see. So night fell, and Zena was girt about with a belt of camp fires. Within the town was the murmur of fear.
When Squarcia rolled back to the inn he found Francesco wearing mail and a sword. "Well, Messer Francesco, how does it fit?" said he. "Well, let us have a cup and a half of wine. I am full to the muzzle of dust." He rapped upon the table and shouted for the drawer.
But instead of the drawer came one of his own men, stuttering with news. "Sir, that prior has escaped! Hugo took him his supper to the cellar, and he throttled Hugo with his girdle and is gone."
Squarcia offered an oath; then, "Warn all patrols! Send me that knave drawer," said he, and looked at Francesco and whistled.
"Where do you think he will go?" Francesco asked anxiously.
"To the devil!" said Squarcia. "And what the devil could we have done with him?" The drawer came bustling in with a pair of flasks. Squarcia filled and lifted his glass. "Here is to the luck of the fight," said he, "and here is to the lady of Zena!"
Francesco bowed and drained his glass.
Squarcia finished the flask and was beginning on the other when one of his officers came in. "Well?" said Squarcia, looking at him through the wine.
"In the matter of that prior, sir---he is dead."
"Then somebody has been expeditious. And he is with the devil sooner than he expected."
"He killed himself, sir."
"Ippolito, you are not a liar, but I do not believe you!"
"He did not mean to kill himself, sir. It was at the water-gate. You know that long crucifix he had, sir? There was a dagger in the cross of it. With that he stabbed the sentry at the water-gate. Then he must have wound up the double portcullis there---"
"The portcullis?" cried Francesco. "But why did he not go out at the wicket?"
Squarcia laughed. "Can you bring an army in through a wicket?"
"He must have wound up the portcullis, and then, sir, the ropes must have broken. For the ropes are broken, and we found him dead beneath the fallen spikes."
"Squashed! Like a toad under a harrow! Squashed!" growled Squarcia. "By St. Peter and St. Paul, but God pays wages sometimes!"
"To betray the town!" muttered Francesco---"to betray the town to sack!"
"Humph!" Squarcia shrugged, "he had betrayed God. Well, Ippolito, bend new ropes to the portcullis---we are not all toads---and give it ray thanks, and bury the sentry with the honours; and a flag."
"Sir!" Ippolito saluted and went out.
"And now I am happy!" Squarcia yawned vastly. "And this is going to be the devil of a business---and I am going to sleep." He heaved himself out of his chair, dropped down on the floor with a thud, put his head on a saddle, and on the instant slept.
But Francesco was in no mood to sleep. There was as little logic in him as in any man that has lived. Now he was possessed with a horror of all monks. The prior was proven in league with Castracane to make him take the tonsure; Francesco had been able to believe that in that dubious deed the prior thought himself serving God as well as Mammon. But to betray his own town to an army of foes, to cast the men and women of Zena a prey to Castracane's brutal soldiery---there could be no service of God in that, nothing but plain service of the devil. And a prior!---a prior! Francesco loathed him and all his kind---even as he had worshipped them all. And as justly.
Monks the honoured of God? No! There lay God's hero, Squarcia, sleeping at his feet; the man who lived to act, who spent all his strength fighting the evil in the world, the sworn soldier of right! Here was the man for men to copy; his was the life men should seek to live. Francesco had found a fresh ideal to stir his emotions.
Squarcia lay sleeping, the least picturesque of heroes, a round mass of a man with a bristly face. His huge chest rose and fell, steady and slow; he breathed quietly as a child.
And so strangely passed the first day of the siege of Zena.
With the dawn they were fighting again. At a dozen points Castracane's men swarmed up to the mellow, lichened walls with mattock and lever and mallet, while his bowmen covered them with a storm of bolts. From the walls the bowmen of Zena shot back, and Squarcia's much-experienced men showered down boiling pitch and quicklime. Francesco ran hither and thither carrying Squarcia's orders and cheering on his own people.
At one place the attack was strongest, and as the day wore on, more and more men gathered there. They had made themselves into a testudo, each man holding a shield above his head so that they overlapped, and one great plate of iron, like a tortoise's shell, received missiles from the walls. Beneath the shields they laboured with mattock and crowbar at the base of the brick wall, and the din of their tools and the falling masses of wall rose loud. From above great beams and stones were hurled down on the shields, and sometimes the testudo wavered and broke; but always it formed again swiftly, and the battering went on.
In the afternoon Francesco came there and found Squarcia, sheltered by a battlement, watching. The sun was bright in a dark blue sky. All around the town the pale green of the growing millet was crushed and trodden into the red earth. Over it the men in black and red hurried to and fro, fresh men coming to the assault, wounded falling back. On all sides bodies lay, distorted and ghastly. Cross-bow bolts darkened the air, a deafening din arose. Far away beyond the passions and horrors of the fight stood the great mountain masses, grey and purple, and dazzling white.
Francesco looked down at the swaying, toiling testudo, and marked the sound of the busy tools and the breaking wall. "By Our Lady!" he shouted through the noise to Squarcia---"by Our Lady, sir, they will be in!"
Squarcia, lounged, watching, quite still and calm. "They will!" he shouted, and laughed and turned away and began to climb down. Francesco followed aghast. But now, looking within the town, he saw a strange sight.
A narrow street ran down to the wall, houses lofty on either side. In the street half the artificers of Zena were busy, with a dozen of Squarcia's officers. The stones of the street were strewn with caltrops, and spikes were being driven into the ground, and iron bars. The lower windows of the houses were being nailed up. Across the street a barricade had been built, a great mound of earth and stones, protected with jagged iron. Squarcia was making ready for his guests.
"Messer Francesco," said Squarcia, "when you fight three thousand with three hundred give them bare room for three abreast. That was my first fight. And I do not mean this to be my last."
Till the full darkness of night the testudo laboured at the wall. Then it withdrew in good order, leaving a great hole and the bricks overhanging.
With the dawn it came again. Soon the wall began to give a hollow sound, and Squarcia withdrew the men on the top of it for some distance either way. Then he himself dropped leisurely down and sidled among caltrops and spikes to the barricade. Francesco followed him like a dog. A dozen arms helped them struggle up and over, and Francesco came down athwart Squarcia's sausage, the long, iron gun. A forest of long pikes rose about him. Squarcia looked round a moment or two, his little, keen eyes searching every detail. "And now, Messer Francesco, I am going to do a little real fighting," said he. "Would you like some too?"
"Give me the chance!" cried Francesco.
"In the days when they called you the sugar-plum count, I have heard tell that you were something of a captain of horse. Eh?"
"I was thought so."
"Well, I have known a charge of horse play Beelzebub with a storming party. Messer Francesco, your own guard is mounted at the main gate. Take them and use them and bring them back."
"Sir, I thank you!" cried Francesco, and hurried away.
A moment after came a long, enduring roar, and the wall gaped to the light. The first ranks of the testudo were crushed and whelmed beneath the masses of brick, but over their mangled bodies, over the still sliding ruin, came their comrades, and, yelling, broke into Zena.
Then there was a chaos of blood. In among the caltrops and the spikes the van of the stormers stumbled and fell, and they in their turn were trampled down, shrieking, upon the sharp steel as the dense mass pressed madly onward through the narrow breach. So over a pathway of men's flesh Castracane's army won into Zena. Into that narrow street they came, and from either side the windows vomited upon them steel and stone and scalding oil and torrents of blazing pitch. There was no forming their testudo again, no making that roof of shields. They were jammed in among firm-planted posts and bars of iron, all disorderly. They had hardly space to lift shield each for himself. No weapons could avail them. Their foes were high overhead behind barred windows. Battered, bleeding, and burnt, hard put to it to keep their feet, and knowing that a fall was certain death, the weight of the rush behind crushed them along toward the barricade.
Now the narrow street was full, now the front ranks were but a few yards from the barricade. The flash of the gun seared their faces, and with its roar into the heart of them came a spreading charge of small shot. It tore the vitals out of that storming party. In the midst of that dense throng of black and red, a lane was blasted. Limbs jerked in the smoke.
In a moment the lane closed again. Yelling, cursing, over living and dead, Castracane's men surged on to storm the barricade ere the gun could load again. Careless of mangled hands, they caught the jagged iron of the chevaux-de-frise and pulled themselves up and hacked off the heads of the pikes. There was a minute's grim, close fighting. Squarcia had seized a pike and was toiling and moiling with the rest. "I would give a ducat and a half for a hundred arquebusiers," he muttered, as he stabbed at a man's throat and caught him and dashed him against his fellow and wrenched the pike-head free. "Lightly with the sausage, my children!"
The gun fired again, blasted the stormers of the barricade away, and opened beyond them another lane of death. But this lane was not filled. The men in red and black, huddled against the house walls, swayed to and fro, uncertain as sheep. No more came through the breach.
"Ho---ho! Is this my little captain of horse?" said Squarcia, and clambered down from the barricade and went into one of the houses and up to the roof. Still in the narrow street missiles and scorching oil rained down.
Francesco was trying to win his honour again. He had broken out of the main gate with his guard. Like a southern storm he had burst upon the flank of the storming party and cloven it clean through. He was upon them again before they could form, and when at last they got themselves into a square and their own horsemen came galloping to their aid, many in black and red lay upon the ground. Francesco drew off, and Castracane's horsemen and his turned this way and that, each seeking for a chance to charge the other.
But while they changed ground there was a galloping of Castracane's officers. His men were drawn away from the walls and massed together and swiftly they fell back. It was well done.
Squarcia, from the roof-top, saw the last men struggle out of his death-trap in the narrow street; saw the rallying of the force and the swift retreat. "By Pompey! they have some captains there!" he muttered. Then he turned and stared down the western valley. From afar came the glint of steel. His own pikemen, his own arquebusiers were coming. There was the cause of retreat.
A skilful retreat it was. Very swiftly Castracane's men fell back; swiftly, and in good order. They gained the head of the eastern valley, they marched into it, the van of their column vanished round a bluff hill. Still their horsemen hovered between their rear and Francesco.
Francesco was swinging his squadrons this way and that; seeking, with grim persistence, a chance to charge.
Squarcia watched and grinned.
"That little man is well cured," said he.
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FRA PIERO, an austere man (save in the matter of eels), now desires that you should admire the stern virtue of Lionardo. "But with what words shall I praise my Lord Lionardo," Piero inquires in his history; "who put from him a fair lady and the sweet toil of love, and devoted all his great mind to the grim work of Mars?" Lionardo, in fact, had hurried from the Countess Lucrezia to help Bernardo Bruni make ready for war. One does not see that he could have done other. Nevertheless, Fra Piero, like a loyal subject, admires him immensely for doing this. One hopes that the Countess Lucrezia admired him, too.
On a hot May noon in Vellano, Lionardo and Bernardo Bruni, somewhat dusty both, rode in at the great gate of the palace.
"You know," Bernardo was saying---"you know I am working like the devil; but you work like two."
Lionardo laughed as he dismounted. "I am working here because I want to be somewhere else."
"How rude of you, when my society---" Candida Perrotti, all silver-grey and white, crossed the courtyard. Bernardo bowed elaborately. She gave him the smallest of possible curtseys. "Is thus fascinating," Bernardo concluded.
"The goddess scarcely smiles," Lionardo remarked.
"The goddess pouts. It is equally delightful. I am going to help her pout." Off went Bernardo, dust and all.
Candida was taking the air in a garden where the violets still lingered, where the rosebuds were already pink and white. She paced over the turf, her round face extremely exalted. Bernardo Bruni paced sedate at her side; but Candida saw only the heavens.
"How bright," said Bernardo with enthusiasm---"how bright is the sun. Also, how blue is the sky."
"I can see them by myself," said Candida in the coldest of thin voices.
"And when I am by your side," said Bernardo modestly, "you have something better worth seeing."
"I fear, sir, that I am keeping you from urgent duty."
"It is even so," Bernardo sadly agreed. "Temptation comes to me in silver-grey, and I fall; but if I did not fall, it would be an insult to temptation."
"Nay, indeed! Temptation," Candida tossed her head, "would be the better pleased. Go to your duty!"
"If I can wait for my dinner, surely my dinner can wait for me." Bernardo was plaintive.
"Dinner!" The full, dark-red lip curled. "Dinner is your duty? How like a man!"
"Would you rather I were like a woman?"
"Why, yes! For I would rather you were sensible."
"Sensible! Think how bad a husband I should be!"
The round white cheek flushed daintily, but she exalted her chin, her little tip-tilted nose. "I do not care how bad a husband you would be."
"Such generous love I had not dared hope," said Bernardo, and took her in his arms.
She was held to his heart one moment before, rosy-cheeked, with eyes flashing, she freed herself. "You---you are most insolent!" she cried. "You knew well that I did not mean that!"
"Of course you did not mean that!" Bernardo confessed without shame. "You do care vastly how bad a husband I should be."
"There could be no worse!" Candida snapped.
"Wait till you have tried some others," said Bernardo blandly.
At that Candida fairly turned her back on him and walked swiftly away. Bernardo followed. "Pray, spare your pains, sir!" said Candida over her shoulder. "I go to my father."
"A strange taste, surely!" said Bernardo. And she went the quicker, and he followed still.
Like the wind they came out to the courtyard and across it and up a stairway and broke headlong, flushed and panting both, into the presence of that very respectable gentleman Benedetto Perrotti, who---likewise two of his clerks---stared in wonder.
"Candida! Your Excellency!" gasped Benedetto Perrotti, and fell back in his chair and displayed his portly person.
"This---gentleman," said Candida with sarcastic intonation---"this----gentleman----"
"Master Secretary, your most obedient servant." Bernardo bowed profoundly. "I was about to pray your daughter to give me the great honour of her love. But she preferred to be asked in your presence."
"Oh!" gasped Candida, crimson and white by turns, and trembling.
Bernardo tossed his hat away and took both her hands. "Lady, I love you with the best there is in me; I love you body and soul with the body and soul that are mine. I love you much and I need you much. I pray that I may serve you all my life. Lady, lady of my heart---" He was drawing her to him---she was white now under his glowing eyes, but her eyes met his---when the door broke open again and in came Lionardo and two of Bernardo's officers and a soldier smothered in dust. "Why, let all Vellano come!" cried Bernardo, and crushed the girl against his side and held her there, all rosy and trembling, and looked round with the light of conquest flashing from his eyes.
"Conquerors both, I salute you!" said Lionardo, smiling. "We intrude with letters from Squarcia, Bernardo." He held one out. But the dust-covered soldier clicked his spurred heels together, saluted, and gave Bernardo another.
Bernardo, with his one free hand, jerked off the seal and read:
"DEAR CHILD:"Meet me at Sestola with every good man you have on the morrow of Ascension Day."SQUARCIA."
"From a bivouac in the marches of Zena, on St. Philip's Day."
Bernardo laughed aloud. Then he bent and kissed Candida upon the lips, and she yielded, and they kissed long.
Bernardo, holding her still close, stood erect again, and, flushed, looked round at Benedetto Perrotti, gaping and dazed, his gaping clerks, Lionardo's humorous face, and the smiling soldiers.
"Guido and Niccolo, write!" he cried. The two officers had their tablets out in a moment. "The army moves at once! The first regiment of horse on Monselice by the upper road; second, on Monselice by the lower road; third, on the road to Sargasta." He bent and kissed Candida again. "The guns take the lower road to Monselice. First and third regiments of foot, on Monselice by the upper road. Fourth and fifth, on Monselice by the lower road." Again he kissed. "Sixth and seventh, on the road to Sargasta." Another kiss. "Second provides escort for transport moving on the road to Sargasta. Each man carries his three days' ration, as ordered." Another kiss. "Twenty miles will be made before bivouac. The guard will be under arms in half an hour providing escort for the Duke of Vellano and me." He caught Candida off the ground, kissed her rosy face again and again, and her glistening eyes, and ran out.
- - - - - -
The guard was mounted, and filled the palace courtyard. Bernardo, in gleaming helm and mail, came out with Lionardo, and they two mounted and rode to the front. Then a little figure all silver-grey and white, came running.
"Bernardo!" cried Candida before them all, and she came to his side, and now he saw the dimple tremble in her rosy cheek. She held up her hands to him. Bernardo bent to his saddle-bow and lifted her till she stood upon his foot in the stirrup. She cast her arms about his neck. "O Bernardo!" she said, betwixt laughing and crying, "you are shameless! And you have made me shameless, too." And she clung to him.
Holding her close against his mail, Bernardo cried an order and led the way out. Once through the gate he turned and drew aside. Lionardo, coming next, gave the order to salute. So Candida stood in Bernardo's stirrup, with his arm about her, her arm about him, smiling, with tears in her eyes, and the swords flashed in her honour and his.
Then he held her close for good-bye.
"Keep the dimple for me," said Bernardo, setting her lightly down.
"Indeed, I shall not use it till you are safe back," said Candida; and it trembled in a wistful smile.
"It will work hard, then," said Bernardo; and with that saluted and galloped after his men.
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IN a room all white marble and dark-blue velvet Lucrezia and Cecilia sat together. Bernardo Bruni strode in and saluted. "Your Highness, the Countess Beatrice's escort is entering the courtyard. Count Francesco's troop is in sight from the main gate."
"Oh, you have done it splendidly!" cried Cecilia. "And it must have been so hard!"
Bernardo saluted again, not without a twitching lip. To concentrate the two parties on Frido within an hour was an amusement rather than a problem.
A moment afterward he was gone, and the three women whose fates, whose loves, had mingled strangely, were together, alone.
Beatrice, a tall, noble form, in her dark gown, came slowly across the room, blushing. But Cecilia sprang up and ran to her, white robe streaming behind. "Beatrice, please---please forgive me, now!"
"Forgive---I?" Beatrice's voice was unsteady, a laugh that broke in a sob. Then she gathered the girl to her bosom as a mother her child. "My dear, 'tis I who have done all the wrong---and such wrong!"
"You---you are not to say it!" Cecilia's voice was muffled in Beatrice's bosom. "Not if you mean to be friends again. Please!" Laughing and crying they clung together and kissed. Cecilia drew from Beatrice's arms and brushed back her curls. "Oh, you know Lucrezia---Lucrezia and I---"
But Lucrezia had risen, and her face was rose-pink as her dress. "Beatrice, between us it was I did the wrong. But will you be my friend again, too?"
"I have been very selfish to every one," said Beatrice. So once again Lucrezia and she kissed, and the three fair women stood together, arms enlaced.
- - - - - -
There was a clatter of steel without. "The Count of Zena!" a servant cried, and Francesco came. His mail was powdered with dust, his beautiful dark face worn and scorched by wind and sun. He saluted. "Your Highness sent for me," he said; and then he saw Beatrice, and had eyes for her only.
"Cecilia has forgiven me, Francesco," said Beatrice in a low voice.
"Oh, is forgiving so hard, then?" Cecilia cried. She caught Francesco's gauntleted hand and put in it Beatrice's. "Please---please be happy!" and she turned and swept Lucrezia away.
The two were together alone. Beatrice did not take her hand back. She did not deny him her eyes. "Sometimes I have dared hope you would forgive me," said Francesco.
"If you have done wrong, I, too! Ah, yes, let me say it: wrong!---horrible wrong! It would have been my sin, my blame, if that poor child had been---been---... Ay, and before, Francesco, I was cold and cruel and hard. And withal I deemed myself good!" She gave a sad, scornful laugh. "Oh! what is more hateful than that?"
Francesco shook his head. "You are painting yourself black to make me whiter."
"No, indeed! I never thought of that.... But I have done a great wrong and---"
"Ah, why will you talk so?" Francesco cried. "What is it to the wrong which I did you?"
"I have done such wrong that I cannot afford not to forgive.... And I pray you forgive me too."
Francesco caught at her hand and kissed it. Then he looked into her eyes. "Forgiveness? Is that all?"
Beatrice's eyes smiled. "Is it for me to ask more?"
"Beatrice!" he cried, and his eyes flamed and he drew her to him.
She stayed him gently, her hand on his mail. "Let me give you your son," she said.
Together they came to the room where the child lay sleeping in a little white bed. Together they looked down at the little round face, the tiny, helpless hands. Francesco bent and lightly kissed the soft cheek, and the child smiled in his sleep. Then, rising, turning, Francesco saw the glory of Beatrice's eyes, and he snatched her in his arms and held her with all his strength. She laid her head on his shoulder. "Ah, but I have longed for this," she murmured.
In the twilight Lucrezia and Lionardo had taken Cecilia with them to the garden; but soon she slipped away. She sat alone in the dark waiting---waiting.... She could hear the soft rustle of Lucrezia's dress among the flowers, she could hear the murmur of lover's talk.... Oh, yes, Lucrezia was happy, and Beatrice was happy now, and she must be glad in their happiness.... Yes, she was glad---she was glad, indeed! ... The stars broke white in a violet sky; a soft, warm wind bore through the window the fragrance of roses.... Oh, it was wicked not to be glad.... The two lovers passed the window, Lucrezia leaning on Lionardo's heart, her hand in his. Yes, one---one ought to be glad, of course; but if you could not? ...
A deep note was breaking the stillness, some medley of loud sound. The tramp of horses, the clash of steel, and shouts---a shouting chorus conquering all,---
"But the Wolves stood firm---tough foes!So we rallied on the Rose, the Red Rose,And we charged them home!Squarcia marching!Helm and pike a-flash!Squarcia marching!Blade and mail a-clash!Way, give a way for the Rose!"
Cecilia sprang up, a little white woman in the gloom, her hand on her heart.
The chorus died in a rattle of steel. Then there was silence. Then shouted orders, and again the clatter of hoofs, but slower, fainter now, and broken.
A heavy footfall came clashing down the corridor. The door was flung open. Through the light Squarcia rolled in.
Cecilia ran to him, crying, "My lord!---my lord!"
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BEATRICE sat in a low chair with her babe, smiling. Something of the splendour of her beauty was gone, but her noble face was wrought to a new tenderness, a grave, pathetic joy. The boy laughed on her lap.
One of her women came in timidly.
"Where is the count, Lisa?"
"Indeed, my lady---indeed I---I---I cannot tell."
Beatrice stared a moment; then her cheeks grew livid, and she clutched at the babe. "He is not dead? Lisa, he is not dead?" she cried.
"No, my lady! Oh, indeed, no, my lady! Oh, my lady, he is not!---he is not!" For Beatrice was all trembling. "I swear by the Virgin he is not!"
"Lisa, what do you mean? I have sent you many times---so many times." She blushed and sighed. "And each time you cannot find him --- or he is busy --- or he will come soon. What does it mean?---what does it mean? Lisa, he has not seen his son!"
Lisa was crying. "My lady---my lady, men do not care as we care!" she sobbed.
"Not care? Lisa, does he say that? What does he say? Where is he? Tell me!---tell me! I bid you!"
"My lady---my lady, wait till your strength is back!"
"Wait?---wait? For what? Lisa"---she rose, with the babe in her arms, a noble, motherly woman---"Lisa, for Our Lady's sake, tell me!"
Then Lisa ran to her and took the hands that held the child in her own. "Oh, my dear!---my dear!" she sobbed, "Our Lady help you! Count Francesco has turned monk."
Beatrice sank back in the chair, and the woman fell on her knees beside. Beatrice sat still as marble. "This is true?" she said hoarsely; and the woman bowed her head and sobbed. "When was it?"
"On the night---the night---his boy was born." Then, after a long while: "I do not believe it," said Beatrice.
"O my lady, the prior has had Te Deums sung for it!"
"Bring me the prior."
"My lady---the prior is haughty and---"
"Bring me the prior!" The pale cheeks flushed. "I am the Countess of Zena; "and she held her child very close.
But the prior was long a-coming.
When he came, there was something of a smile on his wide, full face. He gave Beatrice his blessing, but she did not bend her head. She looked into his swollen eyes. "Where is the Count Francesco?" she said.
The smile broadened. "Your brother Francesco hath chosen the better part."
"Brother?" she gasped, holding her child close.
"He is to you no more than a brother henceforth and for ever. He wishes that he had never been more."
Beatrice shrank, white-faced. Then, "It is a lie!" she cried---" it is a lie!"
The Dominican smiled, enjoying her pain. "He has already taken the minor orders. He has put off the flesh. For you, his one wish is that you should do the like."
Beatrice held her child to her breast. Her eyes flamed.
The Dominican's swollen eyes were alight too. His voice grated: "I give thanks that it is I who have brought him to this holy state. I pay a debt. For our brother Francesco's father it was who led me to this same bliss."
Beatrice rose. "Go, sir! I will speak with the Count Francesco myself."
The Dominican, with his hand on the door, turned, smiling. "Nay, my daughter! It is against the rule of our order that you should see your brother. And it is his own desire never to see you again." He paused a moment to enjoy her face, then silently went out.
As he went the babe cried shrill. Beatrice had gripped the tiny baby as the monk's taunt stung her. She bent over the child, and, weeping, hushed it to silence. For a while she prayed and wept, then, calm and resolute, called for the master of Francesco's guard. He came, Ambrogio Rossi, a dull old soldier, a man of his hands, not a man of head. Him she bade go and require speech with Francesco. He was to put into Francesco's hands a letter; a letter that said this:---
"Francesco:I ask to speak with you face to face. Is it more than my due?BEATRICE."
Off went Ambrogio Rossi and knocked at the gate of the monastery and was denied. Ambrogio was for coming back with his errand undone, but one of his men, young Battista Faggiuola, fell to beating on the gate and raised the cry, "Count Francesco is in duress! The monks have Count Francesco in duress!" Soon he had all the guild of the leather-sellers (for the monastery was in their quarter) at his heels; and the leather-sellers drew the cutlers in, and they the weavers. There was something of a tumult outside the monastery, for the Dominicans were little loved, and their prior less. The townsfolk would not risk their souls by violence to the monks or their house, but they were well content to bay about the gate.
Then into the midst of the din was borne Beatrice's litter. The curtains were drawn back, and all the people could see her noble beauty as she sat with her babe in her arms. The shouting died, and all men turned to gaze. Her voice rang clear to every man: "I have come to seek my lord and yours, whom the monks deny to me!"
Then the people cheered her and turned again to the door; and now they battered on it and were like to break it down. And the while nearer and nearer came the clatter of horsemen. But none marked that, so zealous were they about the door. And now the door was opened, and the people, as they surged forward, saw the white-robed monks with the prior at their head. His deep voice rang out: "Who fears the curse of the Church---back! Who fears the anger of God---back! Him that crosses the threshold I curse!" The people wavered and shrank from him. "Fools!" he cried. "Would you tempt the vengeance of God? Away --- away!"
Now the people were all pushing together like frightened sheep, struggling backward. But Beatrice, sitting in her litter above them all, cried, "I seek my lord!"
The prior beckoned to the monks behind him. Slowly one of those white-robed figures came and stood beside him, and all eyes saw Francesco's too beautiful face.
"Go!" said Francesco---"go!"
Beatrice started and shrank back, and her child cried out. Beatrice hid her face.
There came the sound of a jolly rough voice singing through the clash of steel,---
"Answered Margutte: 'Well, I neverboasted,I don't believe in black no morethan blue,But in fat capons boiled, or mayberoasted---And I believe sometimes in puddings,too.'"
The people ran off for a new sight, a new sensation. The gate of the monastery shut. Beatrice was left to go home with her child, shamed.
Squarcia was the singer. Squarcia rode at the head of his men, a bright, graven corselet over his blue velvet, a red rose of silken petals and a sprig of larch stuck jauntily in his helm. He chanted lustily, and his horse, a big bay stallion, curveted to the sound. On his right hand rode Lionardo---he, too, in corselet of proof---and Castagnaro's page, Cecilia da Castiglione, the Marchioness of Frido, was a little behind them, riding pillion with one of Squarcia's men. They led a long regiment of mailed horsemen coming two by two through the narrow streets. The good people of Zena crushed themselves against walls to let the column pass, and hung themselves out of windows gaping, agaze.
Beatrice in her litter came athwart the road, and she, too, stared, wondering. Then Lionardo spurred to her side. "Your Highness has not forgotten me? I am a Lionardo da Feltre who served you a little at Noventa. I have come to serve you again." Then, smiling at the child in her arms, who smiled back at him, "Lady, let me give you joy."
"Ah, you do not know!" Her voice was a cry of pain.
"Lady, I know all; and all shall yet be well. Tell me only that you trust me."
Smiling through tears, she gave up her hand to him. Lionardo held it a moment to his lips. Then he signed the litter on and went back to the waiting Squarcia.
"Messer Lionardo," said Squarcia, "you are a gentleman when you take the trouble."
They rode on to the great square before the palace, and there, as twilight fell, Squarcia's men made ready to bivouac. Squarcia himself was with Lionardo in an upper room of the inn "Vineyard," and he had before him a rough plan of the town. While they debated upon it, the door opened. The prior of the Dominicans came in.
Lionardo stood up. "You surprise us and honour us equally," he said.
The prior was in a hurry, and he left the door open. In a hurry, and smiling, he spoke: "The great Captain Squarcia, I think? Castracane told me that he hoped you would join him. I am heartily glad, sir. Castracane and you and I---" Behind him came the sound of the shutting door. He turned and saw Lionardo standing between him and it with folded arms.
"Castracane and you and we?" said Lionardo politely.
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RAMIRO CAPUCCI, you remember, killed a man and broke away and left Lucrezia to Castracane's men. Headlong down the hill he went, and in a moment was far away. But his horse was wounded in the neck, and bleeding fast. Ramiro glanced back. Already the fall of the ground had hidden him. He halted behind a hedge of vines, bent low as his saddle, or something lower, and there, invisible at five paces, waited, peering through the leaves and holding his horse's wound together.
Soon he saw Castracane's men pass along the hillside above him toward Sestola. He waited till they were well away, then came out of hiding and cautiously up the hill again. The man he had killed lay stiffening, but his horse was gone. Ramiro swore a little placidly, and began to strip the corpse. He took the shirt and tore it in strips and bandaged the wound in his horse's neck. Then he mounted again and rode after Castracane's men.
Mile after mile, nursing his horse, unseen himself, he kept them in sight. They rode on without a halt, swiftly. Long after noon he saw in front, staining the green plain, a blur of mingled colour. It flashed like the waves of a mountain lake in sunshine. He saw rank upon rank, battalion on battalion, of gleaming helms and mail; black breastplates, a myriad red arms; standards flaunting in the wind, Castracane's scarlet wolf's head, Squarcia's crimson rose, the grey-green larch twig of Vellano. The armies were marshalled for battle.
Ramiro Capucci reined up on a spur of the hills, high enough to see, not high enough to be seen. The troop with the countess had judged their direction well. They were coming quite safely to Castracane's rear.
"His game!" said Ramiro with a shrug, and turned and made for Squarcia. Through the medley of horses and men behind the fighting force he approached. None hindered him. He wore the white and gold of the horsemen of Noventa. Squarcia, a round mass of glittering steel, came toward him, staff and orderlies clanking behind. But it was not for Ramiro that Squarcia came.
There was Lionardo, dismounted, waiting. Squarcia rode up to him roaring greeting, put out a great hairy hand and gripped. They spoke together.
Ramiro Capucci made straight for them.
"Capucci!" cried Lionardo
"Your Highness has been fortunate enough to escape," said Ramiro, reining up. "So have I. The countess has not."
"Hell and the devil of it! Then, how dare you?" roared Squarcia.
Lionardo was white, and dumb.
Ramiro Capucci, sitting easily, hand on hip, looked at neither. His keen dark eyes were scanning all around him. "Your Highness kindly removed one troop of pursuers. We fell upon another. The Countess Lucrezia has been taken to Castracane's army"---he turned to Squarcia---"which, as far as I see, sir, you are not in a position to attack," he added politely.
Squarcia spluttered oaths. "And you---you are not even wounded!"
"I am happy to say it is only my horse," said Ramiro. His eyes dwelt upon a fresh bay stallion that had been brought for Lionardo.
"You---you pretend to be a soldier!" roared Squarcia. "The devil burn you---you have mistaken your profession. You have not blood enough to be a scavenger; but you have brass enough to be a pimp. You---you were her captain---you let her be taken from you without a wound on your cursed body, and then---oh, the devil---you come here to tell us!"
Ramiro kicked his feet free of the stirrups. "Not at all!" said he. "I came here to steal a horse." He vaulted from his own horse to the bay stallion and drove in his spurs and went off at a gallop.
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THE sun had fallen behind the blue hills and left the sky all rosy. The warm air thrilled with the fragrant life of spring. In the palace garden where Lionardo walked with Cecilia and Lucrezia the lilies were white amid darkening shadows---white as Lucrezia's arms.
Cecilia turned by a hedge of roses. "I must go in," she said.
Lucrezia turned, too; but Lionardo's hand closed about her arm, and while Cecilia went softly away he drew her close. "You owe me an answer," said he.
Lucrezia was still against his heart. "Did you ever ask?" she said softly.
"I asked you---what is the love of a woman?" She did not answer, and he looked down at her with glowing eyes. Rosy as the sky, her gown clung to her lithe form and left her neck and her arms white. The heavy braids of her glistening golden hair were fastened on her bosom with a clasp of sapphires. The last of the light came over the roses to fall on the white oval of her face, her scarlet, parted lips. "What like is the love of a woman?" said Lionardo.
"Is your Highness concerned to know?"
"Mightily!"
"Does a woman's love matter so much to a man?"
"So much that without it a man never knows full manhood."
"Yet the poor soul does not know what it is!"
"And humbly asks!"
"I doubt who needs to be told what her love is will never know it at all."
"Ay, but the poor soul who has not won it, he must be told."
Lucrezia looked up, a laugh in her eyes, blood staining her cheeks shell-pink. "Are we talking of one who has not won it?" she said demurely.
"Once," said Lionardo, "I had to talk to Incarnate Womanhood---in a mask (which, indeed, was very appropriate). You must talk now to (oh, admire it!) Incarnate Manhood."
"Domineering and shameless (which, indeed, is very appropriate, too)!" Her eyes mocked him.
"Well," said Lionardo, with an air of resignation, "words are no use! I will see what deeds can do." He put one arm round her, he took her little white chin in his hand.
"Pray, what warrant have you for deeds?"
"I will see!" said Lionardo, and bent to kiss her.
But she slipped her hand between them, and his lips fell on her arm. "No, not yet! Please, not yet! I will speak, indeed! I would like to speak first."
Lionardo kissed her arm again. "As if I did not know that!"
"And how should you know I would like, sir?"
"Because you have been pretending you would not like."
"So that when I pretend I like," she nestled comfortably in his arm, "you know that really I hate?" Her lips, her eyes, laughed at him.
Lionardo's arm grew hard against her. "I know that you are your own mistress for only one moment more of your life. One moment still your own! Will you use it to tell me your love? So! You deny me till I take---"
"No! Indeed, I will tell! Ah, wait one moment! 'Tis little---so little! A woman's love is to give, to give, to give all she is" --- their eyes spoke together---"ay, all!"
"I need no less than all, dear heart!" Lionardo drew her to his breast.
"If---if it please you," she murmured. Then his lips came hot to hers. She clung to him. The glad wind of spring moved about them. Their hearts beat the wonderful music of spring. Her lips were parted a little, and she smiled and stirred gently on his breast. Lionardo held her closer.
"So noble a gift, dear heart---so noble a gift you are! I must needs do nobly now!"
"Ah, my lord, but indeed you know how to love."
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"I THROW my heart into your hand and you toss it back!"
"'Tis too light to be worth keeping, Ramiro!" the Countess Lucrezia laughed. She was playing a game of ball with Ramiro Capucci down the green paths of a garden of lilies. A swift wind blew about her, fraught with the message of spring. The sun flashed out between whirling clouds.
"Should I offer my lady a heavy heart?" cried Ramiro. "Faith! I know your sweet sex too well. Offer them a heart as light as their own"---he flung the ball back, and the countess returned it---"then, when they deny you---offer it again---and again---and again"---to and fro went the ball, swifter each time it left Ramiro's hand---"and again---and again---till---"
"They drop it," said the countess. And did as she said.
"So there lies my heart at your feet!"
The countess picked it up; and, seeing that, Ramiro ran upon her, smiling. But she put the ball---his elastic heart---into the breast of his golden coat. "Never say I stole your heart, Ramiro!" she laughed.
"Nay, I gave it freely! And had nothing in return."
"It was not for lack of asking," said the countess demurely.
Ramiro Capucci came very close to her. "I ask so often because I want so much," he whispered, his lips close to her cheek.
That flushed a little beneath his breath. Bright-eyed, laughing, she turned to him. "Indeed, you are always asking something, but you never dare say what you ask!"
The eyes flamed in his pale face. He crushed against her, and she drew back upon the sweet-brier hedge, and the thorns of it caught her glorious golden hair. Ramiro snatched her hands. "What I ask?" he spoke softly and slow---"what I ask? To hold you breast to breast. To make your heart leap with mine." Blushing, she tried to draw her hands away---but he gripped them; and to turn her head---but the thorns held her, and she must needs meet still the flame in his eyes. "To make the blood burn hot in you, and---"
"Lucrezia! I bring you the Duke of Vellano!" The Lady Porzia turned the corner of the hedge and spake.
So Lionardo saw the Countess Lucrezia again; and what he saw then he remembered. She wore a flowing, clinging gown of shell-pink. The two braids of her glistening golden hair were drawn across her bosom and fastened there between her breasts with a clasp of sapphires. Her dark eyes were glowing; her full, red lips parted a little; the blushes were fading and leaving her cheeks snow-white. Ramiro Capucci (who presented to Lionardo a broad, golden back, one golden leg and one white) was helping her free her hair from the thorns.
"Messer Ramiro," said the Lady Porzia's placid voice, "pray give me the honour of your escort." So Ramiro Capucci was removed; and the Lady Porzia took him to her own apartments and required him to tell her the story of the battle of Vergato, and heard ten words and went to sleep.
Lionardo and Lucrezia were left looking into each other's eyes, both very grave and intent. "Lady," said Lionardo at last, "I have come to ask your help." And he told her the story of Francesco and Beatrice. Her eyes never wavered from his.
When all was told, there was a moment's silence. Then Lucrezia said, "You were not afraid to come back here?"
"No, I was not afraid."
"I do not think you are often afraid," said Lucrezia, talking to herself while she looked at him. "And you thought I should help Beatrice?"
"I knew that you would help Beatrice."
Lucrezia turned away and looked down at the lilies. Her lip was tremulous. After a while, "Come," she said; and side by side they walked over the turf, in and out among the flowers, while the live wind blew about them. "Do you know what you have done for me?" Her voice was low and her eyes downcast. "You saved me from shame---from breaking all my life---and I do not know how I can thank you for that; but I should thank you even more for to-day. You have seen how vile things I can do, and yet you think I will do right. You believe in me. That," she looked at him with eyes glistening through tears and a quaint little smile on her lips---"that is pleasant, you know."
Lionardo smiled. "Why, lady, it is not so hard to believe in you."
Lucrezia shook her head. "No one else does. Indeed," her little delicious smile came again, "I am not sure that I do myself! Oh, but I will not play you false! I will help. But Beatrice! How could Francesco be so mad?"
"I do not profess to understand Francesco. He is a gentleman of too many emotions for me. We have to hope that the shock of Castracane will sober him, and Beatrice win his love again."
"But how could he stop loving her? Beatrice is so good, so lovely!"
"And she loves him very dearly," said Lionardo; but now that was not true. "Well, that love may win his again, yet. Now we have to save Zena from Castracane."
Lucrezia looked into his eyes. "Yes. We," she said slowly, and held out her hand; Lionardo kissed it and held it close a moment---"we," said Lucrezia.
Ramiro Capucci came back.
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IN Zena, Squarcia, with Francesco tucked under his arm, detailed an escort for Lionardo. But they told him that Lionardo had gone alone. Squarcia spluttered, then laughed. "If the lad lives long enough I shall like him very much," said he. And then, "Come, Messer Francesco, we are going to begin to be sane." Off went Francesco inside that arm, unwilling, but nevertheless.
Lionardo, they say, at any hour in his life would have ridden alone to meet the devil, or Ezzelino da Romano, or a worse horror, if worse there be. He was not in the least likely to take men from Squarcia, when Squarcia needed every sword he had to hold Zena. And so, on that spring afternoon, Lionardo rode to Noventa through the deep valleys alone.
Fra Piero, his historian, is extremely anxious that you should note what happened on this journey. "For so shall you understand," says he, "how it was and why it was that my Lord Lionardo made all true men love him and strive to serve him."
It was a grey day. Cloud banks were massing before the south wind, and twilight came soon. Ere that, Lionardo was many a mile from Zena. Out of the shadows before him came some persistent sound. Drawing nearer he saw a huge man riding. The sound resolved itself into this:---
"Dulce cum sodalibusSapit vinum bonum;Osculari virginesDulcius est donum;Donum est dulcissimum.Lyra ceu Maronum:Si his tribus gaudeamSperno regis thronum."
The praises of wine, woman, and particularly of song.
Lionardo approved and approached. "A good song and well sung, sir."
"So it was." The big man turned and showed him a red face and a shaggy, yellow beard. "Did you understand it?"
Lionardo laughed. "I had that pleasure."
"Humph! I am, as you see, a boor. I come from Germany. And I have met so many polite liars in Italy that I am more a boor than ever. But I am not a liar, and I thank God that I am not polite!"
"Now that I know all your virtues may I know your name?"
"My name and a blow are two things I deny to no man. I am Karl Weissmann to fools that have no learning, Carolus Aristophanicus to fools that have."
"And I am Lionardo da Feltre, to serve you."
"I will neither be served nor serve. That is my nature," he smote his broad chest; "a large one, as you note."
"Large, I doubt not, in other matters than brawn."
"You are polite, but you are not lying. I know more of Aristophanes, the comic poet, than any man in the world. Understand me, sir. I am like Cæsar. I would rather be first in some vile village than second in Rome. Such is my nature. Great, some have called it. I was bred a priest. But I found there was no chance I should ever be Pope. So I turned soldier. But I found there was no chance I should ever be Emperor---"
"I see clearly that modesty has ever been your bane."
"As folly is yours. So I turned scholar. I made Aristophanes, the comic poet, my breviary and my sword. Now I am confessed Pope and Emperor. I am first, and I have no second. Carolus Aristophanicus the learned called me. Thus my great nature comes to fruition."
"Sir," said Lionardo, "I am most glad that I have met you. Please go on talking."
And Carolus Aristophanicus, who was, indeed, very like a child, went on talking with zeal. And Lionardo giggled inside himself.
So, each man enjoying himself, they rode on together till, close upon nightfall, they came past a saw-pit and a pile of timber, to a tiny upland farm. It was built of rough red stone; there was plainly no more of it than one room and a loft above; but any roof was better than none, said Lionardo, and Carolus Aristophanicus agreed. But when Lionardo proceeded to argue that any supper was better than none, Carolus Aristophanicus accused him of a small experience. However, they halted.
One man came out, and seemed surprised to see them. They dismounted, demanding bed and meat for man and beast. The man, a plain, dark little fellow, looked at them curiously. "We are, as you observe, very beautiful," said Lionardo. "Now, where is the horse meat?" They were shown the stable, and found it hard to get themselves inside as well as the horses.
"Phew!" Carolus Aristophanicus whistled, jammed against the wall. "The beasts will have to breathe alternately. If they do it together they will break their ribs."
"My lords are to observe that it is a very poor place," the little man apologised from the doorway; "it is only a dependence of Messer Tommaso Traffio, who has vineyards at Pontevico. There is nothing here at all fit for my lords."
"Go get ready what there is puffed Carolus, Aristophanicus, much compressed.
Their horses provided for, they came back to the farm's one room, and there beheld in the firelight, barley bread and cheese and the little man frying fish. Carolus Aristophanicus leaned over his shoulder. "Eels? O bliss! But, by Zeus! you are frying them in butter! Oil, man!---oil!"
"I have none, my lord!"
Carolus Aristophanicus flung up his hands in a tragic gesture. "He has no oil! 'He hath lost the oil-cruet,' quoth Æschylus. This is tragedy. Eels and no oil!"
Lionardo shuddered. "Sure, sir, eels are oily enough for any man!"
"Young sir, you do not understand the first principles of cookery and life. As in living, a man should seek to develop his own private nature to the uttermost, so in cooking, your cook should develop the private virtue of what he cooketh. Eels are oily, therefore cook them in oil, and let them be oily to the uttermost. You have a turn for playing the fool. Be a fool to all men and in all places. Thus the eels and you realise the potential of your natures." At which point the eels were put upon the table, and he began to eat them with gusto. Lionardo would have none. "Young sir," said Carolus Aristophanicus, with his mouth full, "you are being a fool nobly. I thank you for it. But a fool you certainly are." Having finished the dish, while Lionardo ate bread and cheese, Carolus Aristophanicus looked round to congratulate the little man. He had gone. "So! That is odd! I saw that he was looking at you a lot, young sir. Did your nose frighten him?"
"My beauty, alas, has broken many hearts!" said Lionardo. "It captivates even myself."
Carolus Aristophanicus arose, wiping his beard. "I do not like people who vanish. Did you see him go?" Lionardo shook his head. "Why did he go? And where did he go? Up there?" he pointed to the ladder leading to the loft. "What is there up there?" He took a burning brand from the fire and went up the ladder (which creaked mightily) to see. "Onions!" his voice came muffled. "Many onions!" He sneezed like thunder. "Hams! Herds of hams! A pigskin of wine!"
"Hush!" said Lionardo quickly.
A strange sound had caught his ear. The trampling of horses came nearer and nearer, and through it broke a sharper note, the clink of steel. Lionardo peered round the window-shutter. Between him and the stable were mounted men. Lionardo went up the ladder too.
"A cavalry picket," said Carolus Aristophanicus. "So! I know no cavalry picket that wants me."
"Then, sir," said Lionardo, "you had better go away from me."
"You? What! Are you worth hunting with cavalry?"
"You perceive. So, pray leave me!"
"God of battles!" the invocation came in German. "I leave a man to fight against odds? I? Never! I have a great nature. The soldier in me now breaks forth. Observe!" He jerked the ladder up to the loft. "Now are we fortified. They who would take us must fly to us. They cannot burn us out, for the place is stone. They cannot starve us out; we are victualled for a year. So! Now, who are they, and who are you?"
Lionardo drew him to the open shutter. The horsemen were closing in now. The moonlight revealed the red and black of Castracane. "That is who they are? So! Now, young sir, who are you? "
"Lionardo!---Lionardo Bignose!" the shout came from the horsemen. "Come out, my rabbit! The ferrets are in."
"There was once a ferret went in after a badger," growled Carolus, Aristophanicus. "And the badger buried him decently. But what do they want of you, young sir? Your nose?"
"With the rest of my head," Lionardo explained.
"That is hardly worth fighting for," Carolus grunted.
"Bignose!---Bignose! Most Illustrious and Red-haired Duke of Vellano! Out!---out!"
"So!" cried Carolus, in amazement. "So! That is why you are wanted." He took Lionardo by the shoulders and peered at him through the dim light. "And you are Duke of Vellano. I am sorry for Vellano."
"Indeed, so am I!" said Lionardo.
Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, Castracane's men dismounted, and some ran into the farmhouse. Then Carolus Aristophanicus laughed, and picked up the ladder and stood across the hole in the floor, a colossus. In the firelight below a man came into view. As a fork is thrust into a jar, Carolus drove the ladder down, and one end of it beat in the man's neck where it joins the shoulder, and he fell. There was a roar of oaths. Two daggers came hurtling from below and grazed Carolus's legs, and he stepped to one side and waited, ladder poised.
Whisperings came from below. Then a queer scraping sound. Lionardo waited by the open shutter. Two helmets rose above the sill, two heads. Lionardo stabbed swiftly twice, and the faces were rent in blood and vanished. A howl of anger rose from below, and threats, vile threats, worthy of Castracane himself. Lionardo heard Carolus Aristophanicus chuckle.
But soon howls and threats were hushed, and the whispering began again. Then came rustling and the shuffle of feet. Lionardo peered out into the moonlight. One was holding the horses close by the stable. There were some six others left alive, and they were all dismounted. They were gathered together, a bunch of black and red, close by the orchard. In the midst of them was the little dark man of the farm. His face, in the moonlight, was ghastly.
A rope went whistling up in the air and over a bough. Its noose was slipped about the little man's neck. There was a laugh, and they all turned to the farm. One voice was uplifted. "Lionardo Bignose! Your Highness Lionardo! Most puissant Duke of Vellano! Here is your good host going to be hanged. There is no help for him but you. Come down and we will spare him. Stay up there and we will hang him first and you afterward. Look at this poor perishing soul whom you have brought into trouble."
And Lionardo looked, and the little man's face was ill to see. The heavy hand of Carolus Aristophanicus fell on Lionardo's shoulder, and he, too, peered out. "Hell-devils!" he muttered---"hell-devils!" Then fiercely, "Fool!---fool! never die till you must!"
For Lionardo had stepped forward. Lionardo stood in the moonlight making ready to come down. There was a jeering shout, and three or four of the rascals in black and red ran forward to catch him. But suddenly the little man found voice. "Stay, my lord!---stay!" he screamed. "My lord, I brought them here! I sold you! Leave me to die!"
"The Judas!" growled Carolus.
Castracane's men turned on the little man with oaths and blows. The rope was tightened. His face was rising through the moonlight, horribly distorted.
Judas he was. Lionardo of all men had no call to save him.
Lionardo sprang down. He darted across the farmyard to the horses. The one man with them was spitted on his sword. Lionardo sprang to the saddle, caught what reins he could, smote with his sword, thundered with four wild horses down upon that company of hangmen.
They broke and parted. The little man came thudding to the ground again and lay gasping. Lionardo, reining up hard, sprang down and tossed him, a quivering mass, across a saddle. But now Castracane's men were about him like wasps, and he was thrusting and cutting desperately against hopeless odds.
Down from the loft, with the thud of a great oak on turf, came Carolus Aristophanicus. His ladder whirled, whizzing like a quarter-staff, and the men in black and red went reeling. Lionardo, scratched but safe, sprang to the saddle behind the little man. Carolus heaved himself up on a horse, and off they went out of the moonlight into the wood. Behind them was running to and fro and the catching of horses. Soon the thunder of pursuit.
Not far from the farm Lionardo put his hand to the bridle of Carolus's horse and wrenched both beasts round off the track and halted them. "What is it?" Carolus panted out of the darkness.
"Silent!" Lionardo hissed.
In a moment the pursuers thundered by them. Then came crash after crash and oaths and oaths and groans. Castracane's men had found the sawpit.
After one gasp of amazement, Carolus shook and boomed with laughter.
"That," said Lionardo, "is the agreeable conclusion. Let us leave them to enjoy it." So they turned again and rode swiftly back, and as they went Lionardo cut the cords that bound the little man's arms. "Do you think you can ride by yourself now, my friend?" said he. At which the little man made a noise in his throat and began to sob. Lionardo held him in the saddle.
"It is very well to sob, Judas," growled Carolus Aristophanicus.
"It is not always well to talk, sir," said Lionardo sharply.
They came to the farmyard, with its wounded and its dead and the horses straying in the moonlight. Lionardo caught the bridle of one as they passed. Into the gloom again, into the wood on the farther side, they rode. "If I put you into that saddle, my friend, could you stay there?" said Lionardo to the little man, who was struggling still with sobs.
"Yes, my lord---indeed, yes, my lord!" He was at once lifted up and put into the empty saddle.
Then, riding beside him, "What I want, my friend," said Lionardo, "is a guide to Pontevico and Noventa."
"My lord!" the little man gaped at him. "You would trust me---now?"
"I trust you."
"And I---I---I have the ducats they gave me for guiding them to kill you! My lord, you should have let me be hanged!"
"I want you to live like a man. And as for the ducats---why, if they burn you---" Lionardo held out his hand. The little man thrust them into it eagerly. "And we will use them to buy masses for the souls of Castracane's men---who need them, I doubt greatly."
They rode on through the night, till Carolus Aristophanicus, who had not spoken for a long while, touched Lionardo's arm. Your Highness, it is you who have the great nature!
"It is doubtless to match my nose!" Lionardo laughed.
So they rode on, and over the mountains came the rosy light of dawn.
And now doubtless, as Fra Piero did ardently desire, "you understand how it was and why it was that my Lord Lionardo made all true men love him and strive to serve him."
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THIS is a story of men and women, not of mere events. Else would it tell you of the strategy of the great campaign of Sestola: how Squarcia marched and counter-marched in the valleys and held Castracane in check, though the odds were three to one; how Squarcia slipped past Castracane in the hills beyond Monselice and joined hands with a thousand horsemen of Noventa; how Ramiro Capucci planned the guarding of the Noventa marches, and how Bernardo Bruni did the like for Vellano, so that Castracane was clogged and confined.
All this is in the histories. Fra Piero wrote three books about it. Other worthy men have been as bad. Also, the commentary of Taddeo Mondaleschi upon Julius Manutius "De Militari Usu" points out all Squarcia's mistakes.
And all this may now rest quietly where it lies. We have to do with men and women, their private sorrows and loves.
There was music and dancing and laughter in the palace at Noventa. Gay dresses and masks flitted to and fro.
In a dim-lit corridor two met, a woman in crimson, with black mask, a man in white, with a mask of gold.
"Halt!" He stood across her path.
"Who bids me?"
"An enemy!"
"What enemies have I?"
"All men are a woman's enemies, and seek to conquer her."
"But she loves defeat."
"Ay, faith, sweet soul! And here is the triumphant foe." The man in white posed magnificently. "I come, I see, I conquer!"
"Faith, as little as you see!" the black mask laughed.
The man looked down at the fair lithe form. "Why, if I conquer only what I see, 'tis something!"
"Nay, if all you would have is the outside of me, nothing is all you will get."
"I am a man. I love a woman for the woman she is, not for the spirit she will be when she is dead."
"'Tis noble in you! And for what, pray, would you have a woman love you?"
"For a man that can make her heart leap and her blood burn! For a man that can make her tremble and moan with joy! For a man that can teach her every throb of love!" He drew close against her; through the mask his eyes flamed at hers. "Try, sweet! --- try!" he whispered, bending to the braids of her golden hair.
"A love for fine weather!" she laughed. "Ah, Ramiro!---Ramiro! and when the clouds come?"
"No cloud could dim your white splendour!" Ramiro murmured in her ear; but while his lips still lingered close, a laughing throng came down the corridor, and she let herself be swept away.
In a moment she found another mask at her side, a mask of dark blue at the top of a tall form in silver-grey. The countess looked up, her dark eyes sparkling through her black mask. "Master Blue Mask, you have reft me from a poor gentleman who will be inconsolable. Now, console me."
"With all my heart."
"Nay, sir, you might want that again."
"What is a heart for but to lose?"
"Nay, that is a woman's creed."
"O fair professor of love! And what should a man's creed be?"
"'Tis for you to tell me that---honestly, sir---mask to mask."
"May it hide my blushes! Why, fair lady, a man must lose his heart, too. Not woman alone is made for love. A man that has not loved, and won his love, has lived but half a life!"
"How! You preach love, Master Blue Mask?"
"Ay, and practise it!"
"Practise it not too widely, or your love will give you little thanks."
"I practise it with her."
"Oh, ay; a pastime!"
"To her it may be so."
"Fie! You grow solemn."
"Take off your mask, fair lady, and I shall be joyous."
The white neck grew shell-pink. "Without my mask I might be solemn too. Four inches of black velvet make me bold."
"But they curb my tongue."
"Nay, they should free it! Bethink you, Master Blue Mask, you talk not to my lady this or that, you talk not to me, whoe'er I am, you talk to Incarnate Womanhood."
"Heaven! Do you wonder I am shy?"
"Tell me, then, what is this love of a man? What is it more than passion, desire for something beautiful? Oh! I am bold behind my mask; I am not myself, you see."
"I see much less than I wish," the blue mask laughed. "The love of a man? It begins with desire, I doubt; but if it ends there, 'tis never love at all. When a man loves he wants more of her than her fair form; he wants her mind, her soul to help his. Ay, and he wants to know that his can help her. For he desires infinitely to help her, to shield her in all. Then his love asks that he and she should be one. Not so that she should be less herself; not that he would have her nature lose itself in his. He loves it far too well. No; so that he and she made one, yet each remaining the old self, in the eternal miracle, should do the work of the world well.... And that, fair lady, is the love of a man."
"You---you---you think well of your fellows," she said tremulously.
"Thank God, I do! Well, lady, I too have been bold behind my mask. But I am myself. And for myself I have spoken."
He saw the blood warm her bosom, her neck. She laughed unsteadily. "For yourself? Oh, that is not fair! When one wears a mask one must be some one else."
"I was never myself so much," said the blue mask. The clocks began to chime midnight. "Ah, the hour!---the hour! Now we are all ourselves!" Lionardo snatched off his mask and stood, flushed a little, with eyes agleam. "Come, lady, you are Womanhood no more. Show me the one woman!"
She drew away. "Nay, sir, but if the one woman denies you?"
"She shall do it face to face." Lionardo put his hands to her golden hair, and though her hands met his in quick defence, he caught off her mask. Lucrezia was unveiled, all blushing, smiling, with glistening eyes. Her bosom trembled. Lionardo held her hands. "Now tell me---what is the love of a woman?"
"You should have asked me sooner."
She fled away, leaving her mask in his hands. In a moment Lionardo started after her. He crashed full against Ramiro Capucci.
Ramiro first recovered himself. "I incommode your Highness's pursuit," said he with a sneer.
"I await your apology," said Lionardo haughtily.
"Wait!" said Ramiro, and laughed and swaggered by.
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