# The Justice of the Duke (collection)/The Test

pp. 45–82.

### THE TEST

There was in the army of Cesare Borgia a young Sicilian officer, Ferrante da Isola by name, who through his military genius, his wisdom in council and his cunning in strategy rose rapidly to be one of the Duke's most trusted captains.
This Ferrante was a bastard of the Lord of Isola's; but considering his father's numerous legitimate progeny, he perceived that in his native Sicily little scope could await his considerable ambitions. All his possessions were youth and courage, a long active body and a handsome face, a quick brain and a blithe, mercurial heart. With these he went forth from his father's house in quest of a market where such wares should command their price. He had come to Rome in the autumn of 1500, the year of the Papal Jubilee, the very season in which Cesare Borgia was arming for the second campaign of the Romagna. He had found ready employment; promotion had followed swiftly during the war, in which he had been constantly conspicuous by his valour and address; and, at length, when Tiberti was killed before Faenza by the bursting of a gun, the command that had been Tiberti's was given to Ferrante. Thus within six months of joining Cesare's army he found himself a full-blown captain with a condotta of horse under his control, admitted to the Duke's councils, and enjoying the confidence, and in some measure the friendship, of his master.
To have achieved so much in so little time augured well for the future. Ferrante felt that high destinies awaited him, and in this assurance he permitted himself the luxury of falling in love.
The thing came about in the following summer, as the army emerged from the Bolognese on its homeward-march—an army much reduced in numbers by the troops that had been left to garrison the conquered states, and still further to be reduced by the forces to be sent against Piombino. Cesare Borgia lay in the pleasant city of Lojano and rested what time he awaited the solicited sanction of the Signory of Florence to march his troops through Tuscany, and considered at the same time some easy means of reducing the little state of San Ciascano which, despite the fall of Faenza, still held stubbornly against the Duke.
This San Ciascano wa.s something of a thorn in the flesh of Valentinois. To reduce it were, after all, an easy matter were he to move against it in force, and devote two or three weeks to besieging and bombarding it. But other matters claimed his attention. The Pope was urging his return to Rome; the King of France required his support in the Neapolitan campaign, and it was not the time to turn aside and spend perhaps a month in combating the stubbornness of those hill-folk; nor could he spare any portion of his forces for the work, since all that he could spare must go against Piombino.
His only course, therefore, was to send some of the troops left in the Romagna to do this work; and this was a matter that required consideration and careful planning. Guile should best serve his purposes—as it ever did— if the chance but offered to employ it. So he schemed and planned what time he waited in Lojano, and in the meantime our gallant young Ferrante cast eyes of ardent longing upon Cassandra, the only daughter of the noble and High and Mighty House of Genelleschi.
The captain had first beheld her in the Church of the Annunziata, whither he had gone to inspect a much-vaunted fresco by Messer Masaccio—for he was something of a dabbler in the arts himself, and had at one time studied painting, though we have no evidence of the results that followed. It would seem, however, that on this occasion the Madonna of the Annunciation from the brush of Messer Masaccio was entirely obscured in the eyes of our young captain by the Madonna Cassandra of the House of Genelleschi.
Had you questioned him, as he came forth from the church at sunset, he could not have told you so much as the colour of the veil of the Madonna in the picture he had gone to see, whilst he could have described with tedious minuteness every lineament, every detail of colouring, every particular of shape and every item of raiment of the living madonna whom he had seen by chance, and upon whom his eyes had fed for a full hour. And not a doubt but that he would have waxed rhapsodical in the telling, being of a sudden plunged into that mood of amorous ecstasy that will make a poet of the meanest of us.
And yet there would have been no need; for there in front, with an elderly woman in attendance, tripped the lady herself, so that you might behold her and be spared Ferrante's long-winded rhapsodies.
It was her going that had drawn the soldier forth. It was to the end that he might still behold her that he came, with never another thought for Masaccio and the treasures of art, now that so great a treasure of nature was revealed to him.
He had the wit to reach the holy water font ahead of her, and having dipped his fingers turned courteously to offer her the moisture that was clinging to them, which she most graciously accepted, her eyes downcast after one swift upward glance which, Ferrante said afterwards, went near to blinding him. He leaned back as for support against the porphyry font, and never noticed that he was effectively frustrating the attempts to approach it exerted by her elderly companion. Abandon ing these, at last, the dame made off in the wake of her charge, flinging back a malevolent glance at the tall young captain who had thwarted her pious intentions.
Ferrante leaned on, a while, entranced, his eyes following the two women as they crossed the little square in the gathering dusk. But he saw them not. What he saw was a little oval face of the colour of old ivory, framed in shining tresses of black hair confined in a golden net; lips that were red with the warm red of pomegranate blossoms, and eyes that were blue as the Adriatic—eyes whose one fleeting glance had burned itself for ever into his memory.
At last he stirred; stirred as she reached the farther side of the square and was on the point of vanishing into the gloom of one of the narrow streets that flowed from it. He came down the wide steps of the church, and moved to follow her. It was not an evening on which such a maid should be abroad with no more protection than that of an old dame. The town was a-swarm with soldiers—great, aggressive Swiss, peppery Gascons, passionate Spaniards and too-gay Italians. Not even the iron discipline of the Duke might save that child from untoward consequences of her innocent daring in venturing forth thus at nightfull. He was chilled at the thought of the indignities that might be offered her as she went, and he quickened his pace. He overtook them swiftly, and not a moment too soon, it seemed.
Four men, two of whom he recognised as of his own condotta, were lurching down the street with arms linked, forming a human chain which now barred the women's progress. The dame, taken with fear, came to a standstill, and clutched her companion's arm. Thereupon jests flew from the men-at-arms—the rude, heavily salted jests of campaigners—and they swooped down suddenly upon the women.
Simultaneously came quick steps and the ring of spurs behind the latter, and so they stood rooted there in a great fear, deeming themselves taken between two fires. Then, suddenly, a brisk voice rang out, stern with command, and at the sound of it the soldiers obediently fell aside, leaving the way clear.
The dame looked up, to find the tall young captain of the font standing at her side. And at sight of him, and in view of the effect of his presence and command, relief overspread her broad face, to be quickly followed by mistrust of the singlemindedness of this intervention.
Ferrante addressed himself—cap in hand, and bowing with the grace of the perfect courtier—to the mistress. “Madonna, you may pursue your way; yet suffer that I pursue it with you. Lojano is unpleasantly full of soldiers, and my escort may not come amiss.”
It was the dame who answered—quickly, as if to forestall her mistress—and Ferrante, hungering to hear the lady's voice, was angered.
“Sir,” said she, “it is not far. Madonna's brothers shall thank your Excellency.”
“I ask no thanks,” he answered, a thought surlily; then added, with more characteristic grace: “'Tis I shall thank Madonna for the honour of having used me as her escort.”
The lady seemed on the point of answering; but again the dame forestalled her, rendered more mistrustful than ever by the sugariness of the soldier's speech. Ferrante vented his vexation on the four men-at-arms who stood grinning there, holding of their captain's conduct in this matter precisely the same view as did the dame.
“If you would be spared the attentions of the provost-marshal,” said he, “you would do well to remember the orders of his Highness, and respect all persons and property.”
The men stood silent under the rebuke. But ere he had taken a dozen paces up the street beside his charges, he heard a smothered laugh behind him, and then one of the soldiers, mimicking his accents:
“We are to respect persons and property, remember.”
“And when,” said another, “is the person is the property, or the intended property, of the captain, why—by Bacchus!—we are to turn our eyes the other way, like good little brothers of St Francis!”
Ferrante glowered wrathfully, and for a moment was on the point of turning back to chastise this over-daring jester. But chancing to glance aside at the dame, he found her eyeing him with an expression of mingled fear and malevolence that stung him into an even swifter anger.
“Foul-minded knaves,” said he, leaning towards her, and jerking his thumb backwards over his shoulder. “Foul-minded as waiting-women.”
She bridled, and flushed to a dull purple. Not a doubt but that her anger was no more than just controlled by prudence. She spoke, in an acid, vinegary voice: “I think, sir, we need not trouble you further. We shall be safe alone.”
“Say 'safer,'” mistress, since 'tis what is in your mind,” he snapped; then to the lady, “I trust, madonna,” said he, in a different tone, “that you do not share your woman's unworthy fears?”
Still he was not to hear her voice; again it was the dame who answered him.
“I but said, sir, that we should be safe alone. If you construe more than that into my words, you do so out of your knowledge of yourself.”
Even as she spoke, two burly Swiss swung into view, turning a corner of the street. They were singing lustily but tunelessly; for they were very drunk. Ferrante looked at them, and from them to the dame, a thought mockingly, for there was fear writ large on her broad face—fear lest he should take her at her word, and leave them.
“Woman,” said he, “you are a barque tossing between Scylla and Charybdis.” Then he stooped to add confidentially: “Courtesy, believe me, makes a good pilot.” And with that he led them past the noisy Swiss, and on with no more word spoken.
Thus in a silence that in the end grew sullen they came to a very noble palace in the town's main street. Over the door was a great escutcheon of stone supported by two lions couchant; but Ferrante could not discern the blazon in the failing light.
The women had halted, and now surely, he thought, he should hear the lady's voice at last. He peered at the little face that showed so white and ghostly in the dusk. In the distance a boy was singing; down the street two men were passing with heavy tread and clanking spurs, and Ferrante cursed one and the other producer of these noises, lest they should cause him to miss a note of the music with which his ears were about to be rejoiced. But he might have spared himself the pains. For yet again it was the dame who spoke, and in that moment he hated her voice more than any sound that he had ever heard.
She thanked him curtly, and dismissed him. Dismissed him thus, like a groom, on the doorstep, she who had said that Madonna's brothers should thank him. True, he had disclaimed the need for thanks, and by that must now abide; but was it courteous to have accepted his disclaimer? Oh, the thing had its bitterness! True, the lady had thrown him a smile, and had curtsied prettily; but what are a smile and a curtsy to one who hungers for words?
He bowed profoundly, and turned away, hurt and angry, as the women vanished within the cavernous portals of the mansion. He gripped by the shoulder a citizen who chanced to pass him at that moment. He had a lean sinewy hand, and the citizen's flesh was pampered and tender, his soul timid. The fellow squealed in this sudden grip.
“Whose arms are those?” quoth Ferrante.
“Eh? Arms?” gasped the citizen. “Oh—ah! Those? The arms of the Genelleschi, Excellency.”
Ferrante thanked him, and went his way to his own quarters.
And now of a sudden it seemed that this Ferrante became a man of most fervent piety. Leastways he was to be found in the Church of the Annunziata each morning for early Mass, though the form of devotion that took him thither was not one that had to do with the salvation of his soul. He went that he might daily feast his eyes upon Cassandra de' Genelleschi. He had learnt her name by now.
Thus a week sped, and in that little time a great change was wrought in the captain's nature. Hitherto he had been a soldier to the exclusion of all else, the very pattern of what a condottiero should be, holding his men submissive as the limbs of a body whereof he was the brain. Now he became a dreamer, taking little account of his company, and swiftly losing his grip of the unruly troopers who served under him, so that they fell to committing offences against the Borgia discipline until the matter came to the ears of Cesare, who summoned Ferrante to his presence, and sternly admonished him.
Ferrante excused himself lamely: put forth the lamentable plea of ignorance of what might be toward; wherefore he was reprimanded and bidden to guard against the repetition of such outrages as had lately been perpetrated by his men. He left the Duke's presence in an anger that promised ill for his followers, but which was presently forgotten in a daydream revolving about the white beauty of Cassandra de' Genelleschi.
His love-sickness touched a crisis. He could not so continue. The daily sight of her in church was no nourishment for his starving soul; indeed it was a provocation. His repeated attempts to engage her in speech had been frustrated by the ever-present dame, and so, being driven to despair, he determined that the citadel must be bombarded if he would ever hoist his colours there. To this bombardment he proceeded, and for his missile he employed a letter—a most wonderful perfervid composition reflecting the extent of his distemper.
“Soavissima Cassandra, Madonna dilctissima,” he addressed her, having cut a pen, for good omen, from the feather of an eagle's wing. “You have heard tell,” he wrote, “the sad story of Prometheus, and the pangs he suffered of having his liver daily fed upon by the bird of Jupiter. 'Tis a very piteous tale, which must have moved your gentle heart. But how infinitely more piteous am I, how infinitely greater is the anguish I endure, whose very heart is daily rent, torn and devoured by my ardent longings, I who am chained by love's fetters to the dark rock of despair! Compassionate me, then, Madonna mia,” he pursued, and much more in this hyperbolic strain, which in saner moments must have moved him to derision.
The mad letter he despatched to her by an esquire, who was to see it safely into her own hands, waylaying her for the purpose at the palace door. This did the esquire, as he was bidden. Nevertheless, the letter passed unread into the hands of Leocadia, the waiting-woman. She would have read it, but that she lacked the art; so she bore it to Cassandra's brothers, informing them whom she suspected was the sender, and also how this same Borgia captain had hung about their heels for this week past as though he had been their very shadow.
Tito, the elder, heard and frowned, read the letter and laughed between contempt and anger, then passed it to Girolamo, who swore unpleasant oaths and lastly bade Leocadia call their sister.
“Who is this man Ferrante?” inquired Girolamo, when the woman departed on her errand.
Tito, who was pacing the chamber, stopped short and snorted contemptuously. “A by-blow of the Sicilian Lord of Isola by a peasant woman—a base knave of no fortune, an adventurer, who likely seeks to use our house and an alliance with it as a means to his ends.”
“As an end in itself, more likely,” answered Girolamo, shifting in his chair. “You are very well informed concerning him.”
“As to that—he is of some prominence in the Borgia train, and has command of a condotta,” Tito explained. “A handsome dog; and Cassandra, being a woman and a fool——” He spread his hands, sneering. Girolamo scowled.
They were both swarthy, hawk-faced men, these Genelleschi, and much older than their sister, towards whom their attitude was paternal rather than fraternal.
She entered presently, ushered by Leocadia, and she looked at them with a something of fear clouding the effulgence of her eyes.
Girolamo rose, and proffered her a chair; she smiled at him, and took her seat, folding white useless hands in the lap of her blue gown.
It was Tito who addressed her. “So, Cassandra,” said he, “it seems you have a lover.”
“A—a lover? I?” said she. “Of your choosing, Tito?” She had a rather high-pitched voice that was quite colourless, and—to one skilled in tones—gave index to the extreme feebleness of her mind.
“Of my choosing, ninny?” echoed Tito, mimicking her accents. He never had much patience with her. “Via! Pretend less innocence, my lady. Read me this letter. It was intended for you.”
Cassandra took the paper from Tito, and knit her brows. Slowly and with great labour she set herself to decipher the heavy scrawl of her soldier-lover. At length she appealed to Girolamo.
“Will you read it for me?” she begged. “I am but indifferent skilled, and the writing here is——”
“Pah! Give it me,” broke in Tito, sneering; and snatching it impatiently away from her, he read it aloud. When he had done he looked at her, and she returned his glance quite blandly.
“Who is Messer Prometheus?” she inquired.
Tito glared savagely, inflamed by the inconsequence of her question. “A fool who overreached himself like this one,” he answered, tapping the letter. “It is not of Prometheus that I would hear you talk; but of this Ferrante. What is he to you?”
“To me? Why, naught.”
“Hast seen him none the less. Hast ever spoke to him?”
It was Leocadia who answered. “Nay, my lord. I saw to that,” said she.
“Ah!” said Tito. “He has addressed you, then?”
“Daily, my lord—on leaving church.”
Tito considered her sternly; then turned again to his sister. “This man,” he said, “seeks to court you, Cassandra.”
Cassandra giggled. There was a tiny mirror in the heart of her fan of white ostrich plumes. In this she now surveyed herself, and the gesture was very eloquent.
“You think it little marvel, eh?” put in Girolamo. Yet, though sardonic, he was more gentle than his brother in addressing her.
She giggled again, looking from her mirror to her brothers. “I am very comely,” said she, with conviction. “And the gentleman is not blind.”
Tito laughed loud and harshly. He scented danger. Fools such as his sister, whose only sense was a sense of vanity—he had no illusions on the score of her—were all too prone to responsiveness to a man's admiration, and to go to foolish lengths in that responsiveness. Her views regarding Messer Ferrante must be corrected.
“Fool,” said he contemptuously, “do you conceive that this adventurer is taken by your white face and baby eyes?”
“With what else, then, pray?” quoth she, her brows arched upwards.
“With the name of Genelleschi and the portion that is yours. What else have you that shall draw a needy adventurer?”
A flush overspread the pretty, foolish face. “Is it so?” she asked, turning to Girolamo. “Is it indeed so?” Her tone quivered a little.
Girolamo flung out his hands and shrugged. “Beyond all doubt,” he assured her. “We have sound knowledge.”
Her eyes glistened and were magnified by sudden tears. “I thank you for this timely warning,” said she—and they saw that she was in a great rage—the rage that springs of vanity scarified. She rose. “Should this fellow again address me, I shall know what answer to return him.” She paused a moment. “Shall I send a reply to that insolent letter?” she asked them.
“Best not,” said Tito. “Silence will be the best mark of your contempt. Besides,” he added, sneering, “your writing being more difficult to read even than his, might leave him in some doubt as to your real intentions.”
She stamped a very shapely foot clad in a shoe of cloth-of-gold, turned, and angrily departed with her woman.
Tito looked at Girolamo, and sat down.
“You have been well advised,” said Girolamo, “and you have set up an effective barrier.”
“Pooh!” said Tito. “A woman's vanity is an instrument upon which the merest fool may play any tune he pleases. But I shall set up a more effective barrier still—the barrier of a tombstone—ere I've done. This insolent upstart shall be punished. To dare—to dare!” he cried.
Girolamo shrugged. “We have done enough,” said he. “Be content with that. More might be dangerous to ourselves. This knave of Isola stands well in the esteem of Cesare Borgia. If he should come to any harm, the Duke might exact a heavy price.”
“Maybe,“said Tito, and there for the moment let the matter lie, chiefly for lack of means to accomplish the thing that he desired.
But when on the morrow he went to pay his court to this Borgia, for whom he had scant love, he heard a matter discussed in the ante-chamber that set him thinking. This matter concerned Ferrante. Men were talking of the change that had come upon the captain; of the want of discipline in his condotta, which had been the most orderly in the entire army, and of the Duke's grave displeasure at this state of things. Messer Tito, gathering a sudden inspiration from all this, went presently to beg private audience of the Duke.
Cesare was at work with his secretary in a pleasant sunny chamber whose balcony overlooked a garden all ablaze with blossom. Gherardi was writing, to the Duke's dictation, a letter to Messer Ramiro de Lorqua, Cesare's Governor of Forli. It was a letter that concerned the reduction of San Ciascano; and Valentinois, as he lightly paced the chamber, smiled as he dictated, for at last he had hit upon a plan to make a sudden end of that troublesome resistance.
Gherardi concluded the despatch, and rose to make way for Cesare, that the latter might append his signature. At that moment a chamberlain entered with Messer de' Genelleschi's request for a private audience.
Cesare paused, holding his ink-laden pen suspended, and his eyes narrowed.
“Genelleschi, eh?” said he, and there was no pleasure in the tone. “Admit him.”
He looked at his secretary. “What's here, eh, Agabito? This man's friendship for Bologna is notorious, yet he hangs about my court and now he demands audience of me. It would little surprise me to find him a spy of the Bentivogli, or of those interested in San Ciascano.”
Gherardi slowly pursed his lips, and slowly shook his head. “We have had him closely watched—quite fruitlessly, my lord.”
“Ah!” said Cesare, plainly unconvinced.
Then the door opened, and the chamberlain ushered in Messre Tito de' Genelleschi. The Duke drew the letter to him, and signed it “Cesare” swiftly and with a great flourish. He passed it to Gherardi, who stood at his elbow, and bade him seal it. Then, at last, he slowly turned his eyes upon the new-comer, who had advanced to the middle of the room, and—great man though he was in Lojano—stood there, like a lackey, awaiting the Duke's pleasure.
Cesare's beautiful eyes turned dreamily upon him, with no hint of the scrutiny they were exerting, and Cesare's voice, very gentle and musical, invited him to speak.
“Highness,” said Tito, “I have a grievance.”
“Against us?” quoth Cesare, in a manner that invited confidence.
“Against certain men-at-arms of your following.”
“Ah!” There was undoubtedly a quickened interest in the tone. “Proceed, I beg, sir. This is a matter which it imports that we should know.”
And now Tito unfolded the pretty tale he had prepared, which had it that on three occasions his sister and her waiting-woman had suffered rudeness at the hands of certain soldiers in the town—such rudeness that they dared no longer go forth save under an escort of armed lackeys.
Cesare's eyes kindled with anger as he listened. “An example shall be made,” said he. “Can you afford me particulars that will help me to lay hands on the offenders?”
“No more than that they were men of Messer Ferante da Isola's condotta.”
The anger grew in the Duke's tone and glance. “Ferante again!” he exclaimed. “But this exceeds all bounds.” Then suddenly, his voice sharp as a knife's edge, “How know you they were Ferrante's?” he asked.
The question took Tito entirely unawares. The fool had not dreamed that a great man like Cesare would stoop to petty details of “how” and “why.” It was unworthy, and it was unusual, and so, unfortunately, Messer Tito had no answer ready. This he betrayed by his foolish expression, by the foolish blinking of his eyes under that glance of Cesare's which of a sudden had become cold and searching.
“Why—” he began, drawling that he might have time to think, and laughing to cover his confusion, “in the first place they were horse soldiers, and in the second—why—it was gathered from remarks that they let fall.”
“Ah! And these remarks—what were they?”
“You see, Highness,” explained the other, “I am but giving you the facts as related to me by my sister and her woman; unfortunately it did not occur to me to examine them so minutely.”
Cesare nodded his head. “And you were justified by the manner in which justice has been dispensed in Italy. But my justice is not so. Your oversight shall be repaired at once,” he continued briskly. “I'll sift this to the dregs, that there may be no misapprehension. Agabito, let a messenger summon Messer Tito's sister and her woman instantly.”
But as Agabito was departing on this errand, the Duke stopped him. Tito's face—the sudden consternation of it—had told Cesare all he sought to learn.
“Wait,” he said, and leaned back in his chair, laying tapering finger-tips together, and smiling as if in self-contempt. “After all, where is the need? No, no, Agabito; we may confidently take Messer Tito's statement to be correct. For of course these men of Ferrante's would be known to the lady by their device.”
“Ah, yes, yes,” cried Tito eagerly. “'Twas that, Highness. It had escaped my memory.”
“It might well,” said Cesare. “So slight a detail. But now that you recall it, do you by chance remember what the device was?”
Here Tito knit his brows, took his shaven chin in his hand, and appeared to be in a very travail of recollection. “Now let me see,” he muttered. “Surely, surely, I remember. I——”
“Would it be blue and white?” quoth Cesare gently.
Tito smacked fist into palm. “Blue and white—blue and white, of course,” said he. “'Twas so—'twas blue and white indeed. How came I to forget it?”
Agabito stooped low over the papers at the table, to hide the smile he could not repress—for the men of Ferrante's condotta wore no such badge at all.
“The matter shall be dealt with,” said Cesare. “Ferrante shall be called to account at once. Note that, Agabito,” the Duke commanded. Then he leaned forward, pondering for a brief moment. That Tito had lied to him he was assured beyond all doubt; but it remained for him to discover Tito's full aim and motive. Was it Ferrante he sought to harm? Cesare set himself to find an answer to that question.
“I deplore this matter, Messer Tito,” said he, with a very gracious courtesy. “It is not usual in my troops to give occasion for complaint. They are sternly schooled. But this Ferrante latterly—by the Host!—I know not what ails him!”
“Like enough it will be the company he keeps,” suggested Tito, and thus advanced another step into his morass of falsehood.
“Why, what company is that?”
But now Tito made a feint of seeking to draw back. “Ah—no, no! I've been indiscreet. I have said more than was my intent. Forget it, Highness.”
“Messer Tito,” said Valentinois very sternly, “do you trifle with me? Am I a man from whom things are thus to be concealed?”
“But, my lord, I beseech you! If I were to say what it was in my mind to say, it might … it might——” He waved helpless hands.
“Might it?” said Cesare, his brows raised. “Then let it, I beg you—and without more delay, for I have other suitors awaiting audience this morning. Come, sir, speak! What company do you imply is kept by Ferrante da Isola?”
“Imply? Oh, Highness!”
“State, then—I care not. Come, man, come. In what company have you heard of his being seen?”
“Heard? Should I accuse a man on hearsay? Ah, no. I speak of what I have seen, Highness. On more occasions than one have I beheld this man of yours in a tavern of the borgo in the company of some gentlemen of Bologna who are well known to me. It may be innocent. It may be.”
Cesare looked at him very coldly now. “You are implying, sir, that Ferrante da Isola consorts with enemies of mine to my hurt.”
“Oh, my lord! Acquit me of that, I beseech you. I imply nothing. I but state what I have seen. The rest is but what you, yourself, infer, Highness; not what I imply.”
“You could if necessary make oath concerning these same facts?”
“I am quite ready, should you doubt my word,” said Tito, with a sudden access of dignity.
“To perjure yourself?” quoth Cesare softly.
“To perjure myself?” cried Tito, his tone of a sudden mighty haughty.
Cesare was silent a moment, his fingers toying at his tawny beard, the faintest shadow of a smile quivering about his lips. Then he shrugged contemptuously, and looked the other straight between the eyes.
“Messer Tito, I do not believe you,” he said.
An angry scowl crumpled the smoothness of Genelleschi's brow, and his quickened blood glowed through the tan of his cheeks. That he had lied, and knew it, did not temper his indignation at being given the lie thus coldly and calmly—and before a witness, too. There were men enough in Italy who would there and then have leaped at the Duke's throat for such a speech. But Genelleschi was not of these.
“Highness,” he exclaimed, in haughty and indignant protest, “you forget that my name is Genelleschi.”
Cesare smiled, displaying teeth of a dazzling whiteness. He rose, slender and graceful in his deep purple surcoat.
“'Tis you forget that mine is Cesare Borgia.” His eyes caught Messer Tito's glance, and held it captive. “As deeply as I abhor a liar, just so deeply do I love an honest, loyal soul; and such an honest, loyal soul is Ferrante da Isola.”
“Complete your meaning, Excellency,” cried the other, his voice now thick with wrath.
“Is there the need?” smiled Cesare.
Genelleschi all but choked. He felt that, if he remained, the wave of fiery anger that his soul sent forth would whelm all caution; so he bowed low—too low for courtesy pure and unalloyed.
“Your Highness will suffer me to take my leave,” he said, and turned to depart.
“I trust that is the most that you shall ever take of me, sir,” said the Duke, and dismissed him with a gesture.
But as Genelleschi reached the door Cesare's voice arrested him. “Stay, Messer Tito. You may be conceiving that I have used you harshly.” His eyes had narrowed suddenly, but Tito saw naught of this. ”You may conceive that you have had an ill return for the service you came here to render me in warning me of this man's treachery; that it would better sort with the ways of justice in which I claim to walk that I should satisfy myself that Ferrante is indeed innocent before convicting you of falsehood.”
“I confess, Magnificent,” answered Tito, with a mock deference that did not escape the Duke, “that some such thought was in my mind.”
“Bethink you, though,” returned the Duke, speaking slowly, “that Ferrante's infatuation for your sister is known to me, as is also known that you and your brother account him an upstart of low birth, whose suit is an offence to your lofty station, whose throat you would cut but for the fear that I might take heavy payment for the life of an officer I rate so highly. Consider that I know all this, and ask yourself how can I believe your accusation, unsupported by any proofs, against a man whose loyalty to me has been tried a dozen times,”
Messer Tito blinked in sheer surprise at the extent of Cesare's knowledge, and was confounded by it—not realising that much of this same knowledge was inference, and the inspiration of the moment in that most subtle brain.
His recovery was swift from that confusion which showed Cesare how truly aimed had been his shaft. To deny his attitude towards Ferrante, Tito realised, would be futile. But he could still belittle it; still claim that he brought Cesare this warning out of pure loyalty—must have brought it him though his own brother had been the traitor.
Cesare smiled at that phase of Tito's protestations, and his smile added fuel to the other's flaming wrath.
“You say that my word is unsupported by any proofs, Magnificent. In Lojano the word of Genelleschi is accounted proof enough of anything he says.”
“I do not gainsay it. But why should not I prefer to place my trust in Ferrante, whom I have ever found loyal?”
“I have warned you, Magnificent,” cried the other. “I have no more to say.”
The Duke stood pondering a moment, staring through the window at the red roofs of Lojano. Then he turned again to Messer Tito.
“My disbelief in you shall be justified,” he said. “I will put him to the test. If he fail me, I shall do penance to you for my unbelief. But woe betide you if he comes unscathed through the ordeal. Will you accept the wager?”
Genelleschi, knowing the utter falseness of the accusations he had brought, knowing the loyalty of the man he had defamed, quailed at the question. But he stood committed by what he had said.
“I accept,” he answered, and went so far as to invest with pretended eagerness his answer. Whatever might follow, he must now appear sincere.
Cesare cogitated him in silence a moment, then crossed back to the table from which he had moved, and took up a package freshly sealed—the letter to Ramiro de Lorqua which Agabito had just prepared.
“At Imola,” he said, “lies Ramiro de Lorqua with two thousand men, awaiting my orders for the attack upon San Ciascano. Those orders are in this letter. Ferrante knows that Caserta and the defenders of San Ciascano would pay handsomely to learn the contents. This letter shall go by Ferrante's hand to-night. That shall be the test.”
“But, Highness,” cried Tito, with cunning concern, “if he should betray you! Have you counted the cost to yourself?”
“I know the cost, sir,” was Cesare's answer, his face inscrutable. “Thus do I justify myself for testing him.” And with that he gave Genelleschi his dismissal.
Tito Genelleschi went home with very mingled sensations. Things had fallen out in a most amazing manner, and had exceeded by much any intentions of his own when he had sought audience of the Duke. He had the feeling of one who has been swept along by sheer chance, and force of circumstances, into committing himself to far more than he had ever dreamed ot at the outset. He was pervaded, too, by a grave misgiving—an uneasiness as to what steps Cesare might take against him when Ferrante emerged triumphant from the test, as Ferrante must; for Messer Tito had no cause to doubt the man's exceeding loyalty to his master. The Duke had threatened him with vague consequences of his accusation should Ferrante's conduct prove it false. There was need for action on his part; he must take his measures; in some way he must contrive that Ferrante's letter should miscarry; it but remained to devise the means, to determine upon a plan. Thus, and again compelled by sheer force of circumstances in very self-defence to carry through this matter to which he had so rashly set his mind, did Tito Genelleschi become an active traitor to Cesare Borgia. Ferrante must fail; Cesare Borgia must pay the price of having said to Tito Genelleschi, “I do not believe you.”
Tito sought counsel with his brother. The latter's face became grave when he heard how Tito stood committed, and he criticised the matter freely and harshly. His elder brother lost patience.
What's done is done,” he broke in, very surly. “And what's to do is to do; we should do better to consider that.”
“Ah!” said Girolamo. “And what is to do?”
Thus abruptly questioned, Tito as abruptly replied, and in doing so answered not only his brother's words but his own perplexity.
“The contents of that letter,” said he, “must be made known to the defenders of San Ciascano, that the plans of Valentinois may be wrecked, and that thus he may be persuaded that Ferrante is a traitor.”
Girolamo looked at him, his lips pursed, his eyes scared.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “that of course is what you would wish. It is daring to the point of madness. Fortunately it is also impossible.”
“Say you so? Ha! “It was a snort of anger. Tito felt that his endurance that morning was being sorely taxed. “Impossible, eh?” And then, on the instant, as he eyed his brother, inspiration came in answer to the urgent call of his rage. His rising anger sank again upon the instant. His eyes dilated with surprise at his own conceit. A superior smile twisted his thin lips.
“Impossible, eh? “he repeated, in such a manner that it became plain to Girolamo that his brother had solved the riddle. But Tito vouchsafed him no enlightenment just yet. He sent for Cassandra.
“What has Cassandra to do with this?” inquired Girolamo.
“Everything,” said Tito, with a great assurance.
When she came, Tito set a chair at the table for her, motioned her into it, then placed ink, pens and paper before her.
“You are to write a letter, Cassandra, to your fine lover—to this Ferrante da Isola,“said he.
Her great eyes regarded him with astonishment, which for the moment lighted the dullness of her beautiful, vacant face.
“You are to confess yourself moved by this letter—stirred to the very soul of you. Ah—you have a soul, Cassandra?” he inquired, with the sneer that he held ever in readiness. Her stupidity was a constant irritation to him, the keener when he considered her faultless beauty.
“Fra Giorgio has taught me so,“she answered, impervious as ever to the subtleties of sarcasm.
“Fra Giorgio is a fool,“said he.
“You must not say so, Tito,“she admonished him. “Fra Giorgio says that it is sinful to mock at priests.”
“By which, conscious of the mockery he must provoke, he means that it is sinful to mock at him. But our business is with Messer Ferrante.”
“Yes, Tito,” said she.
“You shall write, then, that, moved by his burning epistle—and—and the thought of his heart suffering the same fate as the—liver of Messer Prometheus, you desire more knowledge of him.”
“Oh, but I do not. He is too tall and lean and ugly; and he is beardless, and I love a beard.”
“Tchah!” snapped Tito peevishly. “Attend to me. You are to write him as I bid you; what you may think is another matter, with which we have no concern. You shall say that we—Girolamo and I—are from home, and bid him come to you this evening at sunset. Ah—and by the garden gate; that will have a more furtive, romantic air, which, doubtless, will impress the Sicilian dog, eh, Girolamo?”
Girolamo shrugged. “You forget I do not share your confidence,” said his brother.
“But you can guess the rest. He will come, Cassandra, not a doubt of that, and for a while—an hour, say—you may pretend to him and to yourself that he is indeed your lover, and hold him in dalliance with you in the garden, there. Then—— But I'll school you in the rest. The letter first. Come, girl; here is what you need.”
She took a pen, dipped it, and poised it above a sheet of paper. Her delicate brows were drawn together in perplexity, wondering what all this should portend. At last she asked Girolamo; she preferred always to address her questions to him; he was wont to answer her with less impatience than Tito.
“Why am I to do this?”
“It is Tito's affair,” said Girolamo. “But the object is to punish this upstart for the affront he has put upon us in daring to lift his eyes to you.”
“How will you punish him?” she asked, smiling interestedly now, athirst for details.
“That you shall learn presently,” cut in Tito. “First the letter—the letter. Come, begin.”
“How shall I begin?”
Tito flung himself into a chair, and peevishly dictated the epistle, she laboriously penning the words he flung at her with ever-growing impatience. And by eccentricities of spelling, and vagaries of handwriting, she achieved a document at last which should afford Messer Ferrante some considerable mental exercise. So said Tito when he scowlingly surveyed the scrawl. He dispatched it none the less to the captain's quarters by a young maid of the house, and then made known to Girolamo the remainder of his plot, and to Cassandra just so much as it imported her to know, schooling her carefully in what was required of her.
Girolamo acknowledged the plan to be shrewd, deplored certain elements of danger it contained, and finally expressed the opinion that Ferrante, charged with such a mission and in the very hour of setting out upon it, would not come, whatever his feelings for Cassandra. Tito scoffed at his brother's conception of a lover.
“Oh, he will come; he will come, never fear,” said Tito, “and in the fact that he will never dare confess that small breach of duty lies our own security from those minor dangers that seem so big to you.”
That there were full grounds for Tito's assurance the evening proved. For as the Angelus was ringing from the Duomo adown the street at the back of the Palazzo Genelleschi came the rattle of hoofs, to halt by the green door by the tall brown wall.
The brothers were sitting with Cassandra at the trysting spot by an old lichened fountain that spouted into a little lake in which Girolamo—who was an Epicurean—cultivated frogs and eels.
At the sound of hoofs Tito became attentive; when they halted he rose, caught his brother by the arm and vanished with him into the house.
Alone on the stone seat beside the fountain Cassandra waited, and was faintly taken with a desire to laugh. But her waiting was brief, and presently she saw the tall figure of her lover advancing towards her in the twilight. He was all cased in grey leather, save for the band of claret hose which showed between his thigh-boots and his jerkin, and the steel cap and gorget gleaming like silver on his head and at his neck. His face was pale with emotion under the tan of it, and his eyes, when he came to fall upon one knee beside her, were the eyes of a fanatic at prayer.
“Madonna,” he murmured, “you have shown me a mercy beyond all my deserts; given me a happiness such as I dreamt not that life could hold. I scarce dared to hope that you would deign return an answer to my poor scrawl. That you should bid me come to you and give utterance in words to all the fierce longings that are my torture was something that not even my dreams had dared to promise me.”
She sat—the demurest maid in all Italy that evening—with folded hands and downcast eyes, listening to this madman's babble. And now that he paused she made him no answer, for the excellent reason that she could think of none.
“You will forgive me that I come before you thus—in this campaigner's raiment. It is not so I had seen myself paying my court and homage at your feet. But I go to-night upon a journey and a mission. Indeed, but for the hunger of my eyes to look once again upon your peerless beauty, but for the hunger of my ears to hear the melodies of your sweet accents—I had by now—were I full dutiful to the Duke, my master—been out of Lojano. Do you, madonna, absolve me for my want of duty and for my condition?”
He knelt there looking up almost timidly—and he the captain of a score of battles—at this fair child, who was to him the incarnation of all that is good and beautiful and noble upon earth.
She viewed him languidly—and he was good to look upon: dark and swarthy; shapely and tall; young and strong, with a fine, male beauty in his shaven face, and a rare fire in his full, black eyes. But she had been too well schooled by Messer Tito to lapse now from her lesson, and fall into admiration of him. Besides, was he not a low-born knave, when all was said, and was not this devotion he professed for her an insult? She had her brothers' word for it, and this beautiful, soulless fool had no judgment that was not her brothers'.
“I find that you are very well,” she said, and he flushed with pleasure. “And as for your want of duty—why, what is an hour?”
His face clouded for a moment. She did not understand that an hour filched from such a duty as was his might be a serious matter were it known of.
“What is an hour?” he echoed slowly, and then, his passion rising he gave it tongue. “Ah, what is not an hour? What may it not be? The sweetness of heaven, the bitterness of hell may all be crowded into an hour. Were this hour all of my life that I should spend thus in your beloved presence, then my life were but an hour—the rest but prologue and epilogue to this one hour of living.”
“Oh, sir,” she said, her lids drooping, and the long fringe of them lying upon her perfect cheek; and again, “Oh, sir!”
A fool you had vowed her, surely, had you witnessed her then and heard the vacuous simper of her tones. But the captain—so blinding was his distemper—was translated into ecstasy.
“I am called Ferrante,” he murmured. “Will you—will you not speak my name, Cassandra?”
She flashed him a glance, then drooped her lids again. “Ferrante!” she murmured, and turned his brain to fire, for never had he dreamed that his name contained such melodies. He put forth a trembling, faltering hand to take one of her own, that was surrendered to him and lay passive in his grasp.
“Wilt give me this, sweet angel?” he implored her.
“Give you what?” quoth she.
“This hand—this little hand,”
“Why—to what purpose? Have you not two great able hands of your own?”
“Delicious wit,” cried the enraptured wight. “Be merciful, dear maid!”
She laughed, that foolish treble laugh of hers, which rang in his infatuated ears like a peal of silver bells, what time he feasted his eyes upon the matchless beauty of her face. His breathing was shortened by the excess of emotion that possessed him; a languor slowly crept along his veins. And then she bade him sit beside her, and he obeyed her, eagerly yet timidly—very foolishly, thought she.
As he sat thus in the tepid eventide, in that fair-scented garden, he came to think that heaven and the world had used him very well. He was at peace with all men; he loved all men. And presently he spoke of that, spoke of the change that loving her had wrought in his whole life; how it altered the drift and current of it; how from harsh and overbearing that he had been accounted, he would henceforth strive to be meek and gentle, that he might be worthier of her gentle self—in all of which he employed the very choice and flowery eloquence that comes to some men in the season of their inamoration, but which she found wearisome and very foolish.
This, however, she dissembled. She listened demurely, as becomes a maid, and occasionally gave such answers as she had been tutored in, false words suggesting her reciprocation of his passion.
Thus the hour that he had said might hold his lifetime sped swiftly for him in his delicious intoxication, slowly for her to whom each minute brought an increasing weariness. The shadows deepened about them; the purple afterglow was fading from the sky; the trees and shrubs became dark blurs against a gloomy background; the windows of the house behind him sprang into light, and from the lake came the harsh croaking of a frog.
He rose, alarmed, mindful of his mission, and sought to shake his sweet enhancement from him.
“You are not leaving me?” she sighed.
“Alas, madonna, that must I, though grieving!”
“It is but a moment since you came,” she protested, and ravished him by the innocence that could utter such words of open wooing. He had won a pearl among maidens for his own.
He took her hand, and stayed to speak again of love; then spoke again of going. But her little fingers had coiled themselves about his own. In the gloom he saw the pale shimmer of her upturned face; her voice came up to him on the scented summer air. He bent over her as he answered:
“Listen, beloved. To-night I ride to Imola with messages of state. But on my return I shall seek your brothers, to beg of them this treasure in their keeping.”
She sighed. “When will you return?” she asked.
“In three days' time, if all goes well. An age, sweet lady. But oh, the reward that my patience shall receive!”
She broke in quickly: “You shall not go without a stirrup-cup; you shall not leave until you have pledged me. Come!” And she drew him, no longer resisting, to the house.
Through glass doors opening from the terrace she led him into a spacious, handsome chamber, and there in the light shed from the golden candle-branch he stood and his eyes devoured the glorious beauty of her.
She beat her hands together and a page appeared, whom she bade bring wine.
And what time they waited they stood before each other, and a something of pity took her in that moment. She was a woman after all, and the call of his splendid manhood could not go unheeded. It may well be that had he left her to herself she had now lacked the courage for her treacherous task. But in that moment his passion, so long held in check, welled up in a great tide that swept him to his ruin.
He caught her slight, frail body in his arms. Crushing her to him, he fiercely sought her lips. She battled to resist him, and for a second he had sight of her white face; and what he saw there checked him. It was a look of fear and loathing blent. He let her go, and fell back, foolish, awkward and ashamed. And then—for Ferrante was shrewder than most men—it came to him that this aversion to his clasp was odd in an innocent who had so lately offered him such liberal encouragement.
Even as the thought disturbed him the page entered, bearing on a golden salver a jug of beaten gold and two opalescent, thin-stemmed goblets of Venetian make. She moved to meet the page, with a fluttering laugh. She poured the wine.
He watched her closely out of gloomy eyes, and noted the deathly pallor of her face, the trembling of her hand. Was it still the effect of his embrace, he wondered.
She came to him prettily now, a goblet in each hand. He took the one she offered him, and bowed as she pledged him, smiling, though still pale.
“God speed you on your journey,” said she.
“God hasten my return to you,” he answered, and drank the half of the contents of his cup.
It was a potent wine, hot in the throat and quickening to the blood.
Its effect upon him was very swift. Scarce had he drunk but that there appeared to him less need for urgency in his departure. He considered that his horse was safely tethered to the ring outside the gate. A few moments more would matter little; he would make them good upon the road; and the present was very sweet. A mood of happy optimism enwrapped him as a cloak. He sank languidly to a chair. Indeed, with each breath he took his languor grew. It was the summer air, he thought; the day had been excessively hot.
“You are faint,” she cried, and there was a gentle concern in her tone very sweet to hear, seeming to assure him that he was forgiven his momentary amorous violence.
He laughed foolishly, inebriately almost. “Why … yes…” he gasped.
“Drink,” she bade him. “The wine will revive you.”
Mechanically he obeyed her, emptying his cup at a draught. Again that sense of heat in the throat, that sense of fire in all his veins. He strove to rise, suddenly, subconsciously alarmed. His knees failed him and he sank back gasping. The room swam; a red mist was rolling and billowing before his eyes; and then, through that mist, shining as shines the moon, clear and distinct, he beheld the face of Cassandra de' Genelleschi—no longer the sweet, innocent, childish face he loved, but a face that looked at once foolish and wicked, a face detestable. It was as if in that moment of physical obfuscation the eyes of his soul were opened. Alarmed, he strove to concentrate all his powers to cast off the torpor that possessed him. For just one moment he succeeded, and in that moment he understood. He rose heavily from his chair, his eyes blazing, his livid, glistening face terrific to behold.
“Traitress!” he cried, and had God given him strength a moment longer he would have killed her with his hands, such was the awful revulsion that possessed him, making her beauty the most loathsome thing in all the world. But ere he could move another step his knees were loosened again and he sank back into the chair from which he had risen. The priceless Venetian goblet slipped from his fingers and was shivered on the tesselated floor. Black night descended upon his brain; his senses left him, and his head fell forward on his breast.
Cassandra stood staring down at him a moment, in horror and in fear. He looked as he were dead. Then she turned, and as she did so the door opened and her brothers entered. She would have stayed—inquisitive as a child—to see them at their work. But her part in that black business was concluded, and they drove her to bed ere they set about what more there was to do.
Tito drew the heavy curtains across the windows, whilst Girolamo made swift search in the sleeper's clothes. He drew forth a package sealed with the Borgia steer. It was the letter Tito had seen that day. With a dagger heated in a flame he raised the seal unbroken, and together by the candle-branch—Tito peering over Girolamo's shoulder—they made themselves masters of the contents. Then Girolamo fetched ink and quill—he was the swifter penman of the two—and sat down to make a copy of that document.
This letter bade Ramiro de Lorqua march with his two thousand men upon Tigliano on the morrow, reduce and occupy it before attempting the attack upon San Ciascano itself. For that he was to await Cesare's further orders, meanwhile setting up a blockade.
“This,” said Tito, showing his fine teeth, “will be in the hands of the men of San Ciascano long before Messer Ferrante shall have reached de Lorqua at Imola. How Caserta will welcome the information! You must carry it yourself, Girolamo.”
Girolamo was cunningly replacing the seal. “Caserta should pay us a fine price for it.”
They laughed together. “A great night's work!” said Tito. “We have destroyed that upstart fool there, and we shall deal the Duke of Valentinois a blow that will stagger him.”
Girolamo thrust the package back into the breast of Ferrante's doublet.
“What of this carrion?” quoth he.
“Leave me to deal with it,” said Tito. “I'll carry it to a wine-shop in the borgo. When he wakes his adventure at the Palazzo Genelleschi will seem a dream to him. Besides, he'll be in haste to redeem the time he has lost, and he'll ride like the wind for Imola. He may be stirring again before dawn.”
“Start enough for me,” said Girolamo, and took the letter. “There will be a surprise in store for Messer Ramiro de Lorqua when he marches upon Tigliano. If Caserta knows anything of the art of war he should annihilate the Borgia captain.”
On that they parted, Girolamo to ride to San Ciascano, and Tito to dispose of Ferrante against his waking.
By the following evening Girolamo was back again, stiff from riding, haggard and covered with dust. But he was in high spirits. The affair had sped well. Caserta's gratitude for the warning had been profound; he had set about taking his measures; the credit of the Genelleschi with Bologna should be enhanced, and their zeal rewarded. As he was returning, and after he had crossed the River Po, Girolamo had met Ferrante, riding as if the devil were behind him, on his way to Imola. From a screen of trees by the roadside he had watched the belated messenger's furious passage.
And now the Genelleschi, well content, sat down and waited for news of the rout of the Borgia forces under de Lor qua—the news that should prove Ferrante da Isola a traitor who had sold his duke, and vindicate Tito de' Genelleschi's character. Cesare Borgia should bitterly repent him for having given that gentleman the lie.
It was on the morrow that news began to penetrate to Lojano of a bloody battle in the territory of San Ciascano; and with it came a summons to Tito de' Genelleschi to wait upon the Duke of Valentinois. He went with a grave countenance and a mocking heart.
“You will have heard the news?” was Cesare's questioning greeting. The Duke had been writing busily when Tito was ushered into his presence.
“I have heard a rumour of a battle, Highness,” said Tito, and he found it in his heart to admire the Duke as he had never yet admired him. His calm was indeed magnificent. Part of his army routed, his most trusted follower proved a traitor, yet there he sat, his countenance smooth and inscrutable, his tone level and impassive as ever.
“That letter that Ferrante bore,” said Cesare, “bade de Lorqua march upon Tigliano and invest it. But it seems that the folk of San Ciascano had news of its contents, for Caserta lay in ambush at Tigliano awaiting the attack.“
Tito's heart leapt within him. With difficulty did he keep the joy he experienced from showing in his countenance. “You would not be advised, Highness!” he cried. “You would have faith in this rogue Ferrante in spite of my warnings.”
Cesare smiled quietly into the other's face. “Was I not well advised?” he asked.
“Well … well advised? Well advised! But——”
“Ay—well advised. Had it fallen out otherwise than this, Ferrante had indeed been proved a traitor.”
“Otherwise?” faltered Messer Tito, who understood nothing now.
“It seems you have not heard the end of the story,” said Cesare. “Whilst Caserta and his forces waited at Tigliano for de Lorqua, the latter crossed the river some miles to westward, and marching upon soldierless and undefended San Ciascano, made himself master of it with scarcely a blow struck. Caserta, seeing his rear threatened, and the state lost to him, is, I am informed, in full flight.“
With eyes that laughed in mingled scorn and amusement, the Duke considered white-faced, uncomprehending Genelleschi for some moments.
“You see, sir,” he explained at last, “Ferrante bore two letters; the contents of the one were intended for Caserta to lure him thus to his ruin with false information; the contents of the other—which Ferrante bore in his boot, where you did not think of looking—were for de Lorqua alone. As I bade him, so did he act, and proved his loyalty. I did not choose that you should know the full extent of the test to which I submitted him, and in which you helped him to succeed. For when, in obedience with my orders, Ferrante went to offer to sell the false dispatch to San Ciascano, he was driven out as an impostor by Caserta, who had already bought their contents from your brother.” Cesare laughed grimly. “But for the circumstance that Caserta is fled, I think I should send you to him that he might recompense you fittingly for the false information you conveyed to him.”
A great terror took Genelleschi then, and with it—odd assortment—a fierce anger. He had been an unwitting tool—he and his—in the Borgia's cunning hands. But terror beat his anger down, and very soon he came to his knees before the pitiless Duke—the Duke whose justice was so swift and terrible; the Duke who never erred on mercy's side.
“Mercy!” he begged, in broken accents.
But Cesare laughed again and waved his hand contemptuously. “I am well content,” said he. “I may break camp at once, and resume my march, thanks to you, who have helped me solve the riddle that delayed me. I will consider also and set against your evil intentions that you have rendered a good service to my friend Ferrante da Isola, in curing him of his love sickness. A man so afflicted makes an indifferent soldier.”
Still paralysed with terror—a terror that increased under the utterances of that mocking voice, under the contempt of those beautiful eyes—Tito still kept his knees, with hands upheld. The sight began to weary Cesare; then disgusted him. He rose abruptly. His glance hardened; his tone changed, and, from softly mocking, it grew of a sudden harsh.
“Out ot my sight, toad,” he bade that proud gentleman of Lojano. “Get you gone, and never show your face—your own, your brother's or your sister's—in my dominions again. Go!”
And Genelleschi went, and counted himself fortunate.