The Justice of the Duke (collection)/Ferrante's Jest

by Rafael Sabatini

 

FERRANTE'S JEST

The career of Ferrante da Isola—or, to be particular, the sudden cessation of all record of it—is a matter that must have intrigued many a student of history. In a blaze of military glory he comes into its pages; flashes across them like a meteor, leaving a trail of fiery deeds in his wake; and is gone into an extinction as utter as it is abrupt.

The tale of that passing, and of the jest that led to it, is the tale I have set myself to tell. It was early foretold this Ferrante that his jesting would undo him, for he was overfond of the practice, and for all that he loved the merry tales of Messer Giovanni Boccacci he seems to have taken their lessons little to heart, else he might have heeded the admonition of Pampinea, to guard against making jest of others. And it happened, too, that this humour of his was of a warped and bitter kind, so that his own laughter, as often as not, was purchased by the grief and tribulation of others.

It had been so from the commencement of men's recollection of him, but since he had himself suffered so sorely at the hands of Cassandra de Genelleschi that cruel quality of his humour had undergone increase.

Now Ferrante's condotta formed part of that division of the army of Cesare Borgia that descended the Valley of Cecina to go against Piombino. But he was not destined to take part in that siege, for the Duke, it seemed, had other work for his very capable hands. At Castelnuovo—on the night the army encamped there—Cesare Borgia summoned him to his tent. He found the Duke in a furred gown, seated upon his camp-bed, studying a map; and before he had completed his bow, Cesare had abruptly come to the business upon which he had summoned him.

“You are acquainted with the country hereabouts,” he asked sharply.

Ferrante had some knowledge of it, and being a Sicilian, and not one to belittle his attainments, he answered promptly: “As with the palm of my own hand, Magnificent.”

The Magnificent slightly raised his brows, and slightly smiled. “Nevertheless, you may find this helpful,” said he, and held out the map, which Ferrante obediently took. Then came the Duke's next question: “What force do you judge would suffice for the taking of Reggio di Monte?”

Now Ferrante had enjoyed for some time the confidence of the Duke, and had been a member of his councils; but never yet had he been honoured to the extent of having his opinion thus privately sought by Cesare. His pride in himself awoke; he grew suddenly in importance in his own eyes, as he drew himself up, knit his brows, and thoughtfully stroked his shaven chin, considering.

“It would largely depend upon the time at that force's disposal,” he replied, to avoid committing himself.

Cesare made an impatient gesture. “Do I not know that?” he said. “Let us assume that there is haste, and that an army cannot be spared for a siege. What force could master the place?”

The problem was a tough one; and Ferrante waxed uneasy, lest, by failing satisfactorily to solve it, his opinions should lose the vast esteem in which it would seem that they were held by the Duke.

“Why, as to that, now,” said he reflectively, “Reggio di Monte is no such easy place to capture. It is pitched on a hill-top, like an eagle's nest, and boasts of its impregnability to assault.” He paused a moment. “Force will not crack that nut as soon as strategy.”

Cesare Borgia nodded. “That,” said he, “is why I sent for you.”

Ferrante was flattered; yet not unduly. It was as a strategist that he had won distinction; his military imagination was far above the common even of great soldiers; his talent for scheming and devising, and his audacity in executing, had been duly recognised and were widely admired—though by none more ardently than by himself.

“I propose,” said Cesare, “to give you charge of the affair when I know what men you will require.”

Ferrante's heart was quickened in its beating. To conduct a campaign; to lead not a mere condotta, but an army—here, indeed, was a great stride in his promotion. In imagination he beheld himself already a lieutenant-governor. But he broke into no thanks or protestation of devotion as another might have done; he bowed soberly, as one acknowledging a charge, taking the matter calmly as his due.

“I shall require—” (he paused, considering) “two thousand men.”

“You shall have a thousand,” said Cesare quietly. “That is all the force that I can spare. Will you undertake it with that?”

“Since you can spare no more, that must suffice,” said Ferrante, with a fine show of confidence in his own powers to achieve the impossible.

“Very well,” said the Duke. “You will take your own condotta of horse; Ramires shall lead it for you; della Volpe shall command your foot, and Fabio Orsini shall act as your lientenant. Are you content with these officers?

Content with them! Two—Diego Ramires and Taddeo della Volpe—were among the most famous condottieri in Cesare's train. And they were to serve under him! His fortunes soared on giant pinions. Had he imagined himself a lieutenant-governor? He had been too modest; he perceived this now, and saw himself already Governor-General of the Romagna. Yet he contained his satisfaction, contenting himself with bowing soberly.

“I shall require some artillery,” said he.

“I have none for you—not indeed enough for my own needs against Piombino,” was the answer.

Ferrante was disappointed. What was an army without artillery? He posed some such question to the Duke. “If you could spare me were it no more than four guns,” he sighed in conclusion.

“Four guns? Why, what shall you do with four guns?” quoth Cesare. “To grant you them would be to weaken myself without strengthening you.”

“They might serve me well for display,” said Ferrante, giving the first reason he could think of—a reason that was to recur to him later, and afford him the very kernel of the scheme he was to develop. At the moment, however, all that he thought of it was that the explanation was a paltry and unworthy one.

Not so, it seemed, thought Cesare, for his glance quickened as it rested upon Ferrante, as though the condottiero's words had awakened in the Duke's mind some notion of the means by which the task he was imposing might be carried through.

“Be it so, then,” he said. “You shall have the guns. All will be ready for you by sunrise. You will set out then.”

Ferrante bowed and departed, well content. But outside, under the stars of that summer night, his satisfaction and self-complacency met a check. How—how was the thing to be accomplished? It had been easy to speak confidently of doing it with a thousand men, and to look confident; it would have been the same had the Duke suggested that he should do it with a hundred—and just as easy, he grimly reflected now. Here was a great chance of distinction, true; but there was a still greater chance of disaster. He felt now that the task of capturing Reggio di Monte with a thousand men was one he would like to allot to his worst enemy—and on that he went to bed, hoping for the counsel that sleep is said to bring.

He awoke despondent; but his spirits rose when he came forth from his tent to find his army all drawn up awaiting him. It was in his eyes a very noble sight, and never did lover look with greater ardour upon his mistress than did Ferrante upon those men-at-arms. There was his own condotta—a phalanx of steel-clad horsemen—rearing skywards a forest of four hundred lances, and here the close-packed ranks of sturdy Romagnuoli foot; yonder the baggage-carts and the ordonnance mounted upon carriages drawn by bullocks; and above was the morning sun shining upon all and striking fire from morion, corselet and lance-head.

Through the bustle of the camp from which they were departing came Ferrante's officers to greet their leader; first the Spaniard Ramires, tall and handsome, leading his charger, bridle over arm; after him rolled the sturdy Taddeo della Volpe—that valiant one-eyed veteran, who had left his other eye at Forli and had boasted that he was glad of it since it enabled him to see but the half of danger; lastly came the youthful Fabio Orsini, a very pretty fellow in variegated hose, who dissembled his valour under a cloak of foppishness. If they entertained any jealousy of Ferrante's promotion, they dissembled it, and very friendly were they as they stood there to receive his orders.

These he issued briskly; and presently the horse, with Ramires at its head, began to move. After it, della Volpe defiled his foot; and lastly came the guns and baggage-carts. Ferrante rode some little way in the rear, accompanied by Orsini and followed by two mounted esquires.

In this order they went back by the road that but yesterday they had travelled, and climbed the first hill of that rugged country. From the crest of it, Ferrante looked back upon the main body of the army which was on the point of resuming its westward march. Then he rode down the incline, and turned his thoughts once more to the business to which he stood committed.

Anon, letting the reins lie on the neck of his ambling charger, he drew forth the map that Cesare had given him, and pored over it as if to gather inspirations from its tracings. One matter this study did determine—how Reggio di Monte should be approached. Not by the highway running up the valley along the river, whence their coming might be witnessed and their strength—or, rather, their weakness—observed by the men of Reggio on the heights. Rather must they approach it under cover, and to this end Ferrante ordered the troops—after the noontide rest—to strike away to the south and the hills. As a consequence they rested at nightfall on the slopes of Monte Quarto, with that stout hill as a screen between themselves and the eyes of Reggio.

There they pitched the tents of the officers, and there the men bivouacked under the summer sky. Ferrante ascended the hill alone that night, and from the summit he looked across the narrow gap of valley at the lights of Reggio on the hill-top opposite, a bowshot away. That was his first view of the town. He had come and he had seen; but to the conquering he perceived no way just yet. Would a way be opened to him? He sat down to think, and so near did the lights of Reggio seem that he entertained the perfectly idle reflection that a bridge thrown across the gap would afford an easy solution of the riddle.

Now this papal fief of Reggio di Monte, you are to know, had been unlawfully sold by the late Pope, Innocent VIII., to Count Prospero Guancia, and upon the latter's death had been inherited by his brother Girolamo, Cardinal-Deacon of Santa Apollonia, who now held it, in open rebellion against the authority of the Holy See. For whilst the Cardinal-Count as cleric must, and did, acknowledge the sovereignty of Pope Alexander VI., as tyrant he refused—so far as Reggio di Monte was concerned—to recognise in the latter his temporal overlord. He was by no means blind to the danger of this insurbordination; but he was a crafty and far-seeing opportunist, employing well-paid spies at Rome to keep him informed of his danger's precise degree.

Hitherto, Cesare Borgia had been fully engaged beyond the Apennines, in the conquest of the Romagna, with no time to turn aside to gather so comparatively insignificant a fruit as Reggio di Monte. The Cardinal-Count well knew that in the course of things his own turn should come, and that he might be forced to yield his fief. But it was also possible that chance might serve him; and he deemed it as well to wait in his out-of-the-way corner of Tuscany until the enemy was at his gates. He had known a spasm of fear when word was brought him that the Pope's son was in Tuscany, marching upon Piombino, and he wondered uneasily whether Cesare would turn aside to dislodge him from his stronghold. But he did not consider the peril imminent, knowing as he did that Cesare was in haste, that he was awaited in Rome, and that he was to join the French in the Neapolitan campaign. That Neapolitan campaign was a sweet subject of reflection to the Cardinal-Count. Much might happen in the course of it, and a French defeat would mean such loss of power to the Pope that it was unlikely Reggio or any other Northern tyranny would be further disturbed by Borgia ambition. So overwhelmingly clear was this to the Cardinal-Count, so firmly did he found his hopes upon it, that he was resolved to withstand any but an overwhelming attack that might be made upon him in the meantime. To this end he had made due preparation. He was well victualled to resist a siege, and, if poorly garrisoned, he could rely upon the natural strength of Reggio, the stoutness of its walls and its almost inaccessible position on its craggy heights.

The game he was disposed to play was a very plain and obvious one, and it was obvious to Messer Ferrante, who was considering it as he sat there on the hill-top and looked across the valley at his prey. Not to such a detachment as Ferrante commanded would the Lord of Reggio surrender, and Ferrante could imagine the laugh of scorn with which his lordship would greet the appearance of the full force that had been sent against him. Therefore, it followed logically in Ferrante's mind that, if the Cardinal-Count was to see the force at all, he must be kept in ignorance of its weakness, be led to suppose it greater than it was—that a prompt surrender might be inspired.

So far—and strictly in theory—all was easy. In practice even this easy beginning seemed none too possible; and, if it were, what was to follow after? He sat there far into the night, devising impracticable stratagems, and weaving romantically impossible plans.

“If my men had wings now, or every horse of my condotta were a Pegasus,” he said aloud, and checked there, realising that this sort of speculation was unprofitable and could lead him nowhere. Yet it was a very perfect type of such plans as flitted through his mind.

In the end he became angry. It was immensely flattering of the Duke to show such confidence in him by sending him with so entirely inadequate a force; but he now found it in his heart to wish that he had been given less confidence and more men.

He sat on, resolved to await the coming of day, that he might take a survey of the ground before he went to rest. And presently the early summer dawn crept over the silent land, pale and colourless as a moonstone at first, then quickening to the iridescence of the opal, and lastly flaming into a glory of gold and purple in the east, behind the stark black mass of mountains that were Italy's backbone.

Ferrante surveyed the valley in the clear morning light. Below him was a farmstead with pasture-land and arable, beyond it a vineyard, and below this again an olive grove that ran down to the sparkling river winding at the bottom. From the water wisps of mist were rising, like steam from an overheated beast. Beyond it, to the south, a wedge of woodland spread some little way along its course. Before him, on a level with him, stood the red-brown mass of the city of Reggio, the Maschio Tower of the citadel standing square and clear above the rusty roofs. With the eye of the soldier he considered the stout walls and their roofed battlements, saw how these sprang from grey rock that was no whit less sheer, and observed how the rock in turn rose out of meadow-land that became ever gentler in slope and richer in hue as it descended to the emerald green of the valley by the river. He remarked the grey road, wound spirally about it, like a rope, and commanded by the city at every point of it, and he determined that that way lay no hope of effecting an entrance by surprise.

Undoubtedly the Duke had set him a choice task. He stood leaning against a boulder, chin in hand, and very thoughtful. The sun's hot face looked over the Apeninnes, and dispelled the last shadow from the narrow valley at his feet. He watched the river tumbling and sparkling in the morning light, watched the thin mist, rising more swiftly now. The sight of that mist brought him an inspiration; at least, it showed him what might be done if it were a fog, and indulging his dream he conceived a very subtle, crafty plan, for which, however, a fog was wholly essential. He came back to realities with an oath. There was no fog, and, since it was not in the power of man to make fogs, what purpose could it serve to waste time considering what he might do with one.

He turned away in a mighty ill-humour, and went down the hill to his camp, more out of conceit with himself than ever he had been in his twenty-five years of life—which in Messer Ferrante, after all, was not so bad as it might have been in another.

To the sentry standing by his tent he gave an order. “There is a farmstead over the hill. Let six men go there at once, secure every member of the household and bring all prisoners to the camp here.”

It was a precautionary measure against word of their presence being prematurely conveyed to Reggio. He entered his tent, flung off his cloak, all sodden with dew, pulled off his long boots, and flung himself on his couch, tired from his long vigil. Presently the flap was lifted and Fabio Orsini came in.

“Well returned,” the lieutenant greeted Ferrante. “Where have you spent the night?”

“On Pisgah,” answered Ferrante sleepily, “surveying the promised land.”

“At what hour do we march?”

“'Tis what I most desire to know. By your leave, I'll seek counsel in sleep.”

Orsini made shift to depart. At the entrance he looked back. “Have you commands for me?” he asked.

Ferrante's answer seemed an odd one. “Can you make fogs?” quoth he.

“Fogs?” echoed Orsini.

“Ay, fogs—dense fogs, white fogs, fat fogs.”

“Why, no,” laughed Orsini.

“Then,” said Ferrante, “I have no commands for you.” And he turned over to go to sleep.

When he awakened he found his three officers assembled in his tent.

“It is noon, Sir Captain,” said Ramires.

“Did I make it so?” grumbled Ferrante peevishly. “What now?”

“We have come for your orders.”

“Then I'll order breakfast,” said Ferrante, and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“We refer to marching orders,” della Volpe explained, rolling his one eye fiercely.

Ferrante drove his fingers through his rumpled hair and flung his jaws wide in a yawn. “Whither do you march?” he inquired, when he had recovered.

“Whither?” they cried in chorus, and looked at one another. Ferrante began to find them entertaining; also his opinion of them as soldiers sank considerably. They were mere fighters, stout fighters, but no more. “Let us take counsel,” he said. He rose, went to the entrance, and bawled for one of his esquires, calling for meat and drink.

“I spent the night up yonder,” he informed them, “considering the matter of our attack, and surveying the land. I discovered one important thing, sirs.” He paused.

“Yes, yes?” they cried.

“That this is no easy business,” he informed them easily.

“Thus much we knew,” roared della Volpe.

“Ah, you knew? Good! That is where your intelligence surpasses mine.”

The single eye of the grizzled captain of foot fixed itself sternly upon Ferrante.

“The question is,” said Ramires slowly, “when are you going to attack?”

“I crave your pardon,” said Ferrante, “but that is not the question at all. The question is—how are we going to attack?”

His esquires entered, bearing bread and meat, fruit, and eggs beaten in wine. Ferrante took the things, spread them beside him on the camp-bed, and began to eat.

“What do you counsel?” he inquired, his mouth full.

The question seemed to perturb them, suggesting considerations hitherto ignored.

“Why,” said Ramires, “here's a deal of bother about seizing a thieves' nest.”

“There is likely to be a deal more before it's seized,” said Ferrante, and quaffed his mess of eggs and wine with relish. Yet their stupidity, their failure to see his difficulties even when he suggested them, began to put him out of patience.

“I am all for the direct attack,” said della Volpe, with the fighter's scorn of the schemer.

“It should be dear to you,” said Ferrante. “It has cost you an eye already.”

The remaining eye glowered fiercely out of that scarred face. “My eye was my own to lose.”

“As is your temper—though you were wiser to retain it, Ser Taddeo.”

“And I thank God I lost my eye,” went on the condottiero, “since, had I two, I might see as much danger as do you.”

“I think,” said Ferrante, “that you have made that jest before.”

“Sirs, sirs!” cried Ramires, intervening. “We are concerned at present with the attack on Reggio.”

“For myself, and to be frank,” said Ferrante, “I am more concerned with breakfast. But let that be. I can listen as I eat. Expound me your plans.” And he sank his teeth into the succulent fibres of a peach.

Ramires braced himself to the task, and with occasional interpolations from della Volpe he propounded strategies that were old in the days of Cyrus, but none of which would have led that same Cyrus into Babylon, nor was likely to lead them into Reggio. Orsini stood listening, but venturing no opinion. Ferrante ate, drank, and heard them as soberly as he might.

“You assure me of one thing,” said he, when they had done. “That you have never seen this city of Reggio. Go up, and look at it, I beg.”

“What will take one place will take another,” said della Volpe.

“Always granting that that other is not Reggio,” put in Ferrante. “Go up; go up, and survey the town; and, ere you go, put off your armour, lest it glitter. When you have seen, perhaps you will have help to offer me.”

As they were departing, by no means in the best of moods, he stayed them.

“Can you make fogs, Messer Taddeo?” he asked.

“Fogs?” quoth Taddeo, bewildered.

“It is plain you cannot. Can you, Ramires?”

“Is it a jest?” quoth the Spaniard, with a great dignity.

“It is plain you cannot either. I have a plan for bringing the arrogant Messer Guancia to his knees. But my plan requires a fog. Since you cannot make me a fog, perhaps you'll go pray for one; and whilst you're gone, I'll try to think of something better.”

They went out accounting him mad, and the Duke no better for having given him charge of this expedition. They comforted one another by vilifying him as they climbed the hill to get a view of Reggio.

••••••

After sunset Ferrante's tent was once more invaded by his officers. Taddeo had a plan, he claimed—a most original plan. Ferrante looked up hopefully.

“A night attack!” Taddeo announced, with pride.

Ferrante sneered. Taddeo argued; let them set out in an hour; there would be no moon; they could reach Reggio undetected and surprise its gates.

Ferrante's sneer grew broader. “An excellent plan, Messer Taddeo, but for one tiling which you have overlooked.”

“And what may that be?” challenged the truculent veteran.

“That they are not all stone-deaf in Reggio, and therefore that a thousand men winding about a hard mountain road would be heard before they were half way up. Then, Messer Taddeo, we shall have as pretty a shower of rocks and boiling pitch to greet us as ever rained on a parcel of fools.”

Taddeo was angry, and he had the support of Ramires, whilst Orsini—as became his youth—stood neutral. It was all very well for Ferrante to sneer at their suggestions; but what better could he offer?

None, he admitted. “If only we had a fog, now—” he began; and at the very mention of the word they flung out in a passion and left him.

But despite the ease he affected in their presence his mind was tortured by perplexity. He slept but ill that night, and he awoke at peep of day. He rose, dressed, and went out into the clear, steely light of dawn. Very slowly, and his wits very busy about this appalling riddle that had been set him, he ascended the hill. He fostered a faint hope that the renewed contemplation of Reggio might inspire him.

The light grew rapidly as he went up, and by the time he had gained the summit it was broad day. Arrived there he uttered a soft ejaculation, and it was not across at Reggio, standing dark and sharply outlined against the pale southern sky that he stared, but down into the narrow valley at his feet. He stared and stared, misdoubting his senses, fearing that he must be asleep in his tent and dreaming—dreaming of the thing that so obsessed his mind. For half the valley was blotted from his sight in the thick billows of a mist that hung there above the now hidden river. It was the fog of his dreams. Then he roused himself. Here was no time to be lost. Every moment was of value, for none might say how soon that mist would rise.

He turned and hung down the hill again like a mad man. Like a madman he burst upon the awakening camp, bawling for trumpets, and kicking sleepers out of their dreams.

“To horse! To horse!” he bellowed, and presently to his own were added the brazen voices of half-a-dozen trumpets.

His officers, half-dressed and unkempt, came hurrying for his orders. He issued them sharp and briefly; the officers dashed off again to see them executed. Soon all was a confusion of scurrying men and stamping horses. Soon out of that confusion order began to resolve itself. The foot was ready first and, as it formed up, Ferrante waited for no more. He hung himself on to the charger one of his esquires had fetched him, summoned trumpeters to his side, caught up the great red and gold standard bearing the device of the bull, and shouted to the foot to follow him.

“Ramires, marshal the horse; but do not stir until my trumpets summon you. Fabio, see to the guns. Taddeo, follow me. On, on!”

At a run he led them up to the crest of Monte Quarto, his mounted trumpeters busy all the while, rousing the countryside with their brazen din, and bringing all Reggio to the walls in quick alarm. Over the hill's crest he led those six hundred men, marching four abreast, for the way was narrow; down he led them until himself and the foremost ranks were plunged into the mist, and hidden.

“Now run,” he bade them—for their descent of the hill had been sedate so far; and he led them—not down, but away to the right, and round the flank of the hill until they rejoined the rear of the column near the summit once more. There he stood aside, bidding them on; and Taddeo, who grasped his meaning, went on with them, and over the crest and down and round again in an unbroken chain. At last, when the whole column had five times repeated the manœuvre, and five times been round and over the shoulder of Monte Quarto, Ferrante bade Taddeo halt and marshal them there as they returned. Then he sent forward Orsini with the guns and baggage-carts—the latter empty, for there had been to time to break camp—and after these he followed again, with Ramires now and the horse, his trumpeters more vociferous than ever.

The manœvre of the foot was repeated with the horse, and after these came again more foot, more guns and baggage carts, and lastly more horse. For upwards of an hour did the fearsome pageant which Ferrante's cunning had devised to terrorise the defenders of Reggio continue to parade before the scared eyes of the watchers on the walls. For an hour and upwards did the Cardinal-Count himself observe those vast forces pouring over the summit of Monte Quarto in a never-ending torrent of steel-cased men and splendid horses, flashing and glittering in the morning sun that shone upon the heights. Into the mist below they passed—to ford the river, and cross the valley, thought the Cardinal-Count—to be led round and back, in fact, over the shoulder of the hill again, and down and round in never-ending legions.

By the time the thinning mist warned Ferrante that he should make an end, the Cardinal-Count computed that ten thousand men at least composed the army that was come against him, and drew from this the only possible conclusion—that the very thing he had deemed unlikely had come to pass, and that Cesare Borgia had turned aside and come with his entire army to compel Reggio to surrender.

It was a sour draught for the Cardinal-Count; a force of a thousand, of two thousand or even of five thousand, he would defiantly have withstood, setting his faith in time. But with such an army as this marching against his gates, the Tyrant of Reggio realised in bitterness that the time was come for other measures. He must consider, and to consider he withdrew, calling his council to attend him.

His council was panic-stricken. With one voice its members urged him to surrender—to make betimes a becoming show of humility, and save the city from the fire and sword that must wait upon the defiance of such a host as lay encamped below. For Ferrante had encamped, meanwhile, in the valley; and in this matter he was effectively assisted by the forest to pursue the comedy of his pageant.

When the curtain of mist was rolled aside, Reggio had beheld on the wood's edge no more than a matter of a thousand men. But there was such constant coming and going, into and out of the forest, that it was clear the Duke had bivouacked his countless legions under the shelter of the trees, and that this matter of a thousand men or so was but an overflow—a supposition confirmed by the fact that there were no horses to be seen.

The Cardinal-Count sat listening to the appeal of his counsellors—a long, lean, majestic man, whose haughty countenance was livid now. He gnawed his heavy lip awhile, considering; and presently there came an usher to announce a herald from the Lord Cesare Borgia, Duke of Romagna and Valentinois.

The herald was admitted to the council-chamber—a very pretty fellow in a surcoat of scarlet and gold with the pontifical arms embroidered upon his breast, with stockings that were one red and the other yellow.

He bowed profoundly to the assembled company, unnecessarily proclaimed his office, and still more unnecessarily the many titles of the Duke of Valentinois, in whose name he spoke. Thereafter he did his errand very courteously, and it was a more courteous errand than the Cardinal-Count had looked for. It summoned him to surrender. Just that, and no more. It was backed by no threat of hideous alternatives, and in that lay the most deadly threat of all. Cesare Borgia was so sure of Reggio that he did not even deign to threaten.

It was over. Nothing remained them but surrender. The Duke heM them in the hollow of his hand. He gave Messer Guancia until sunset to determine. The Cardinal bowed his head.

“Upon what conditions does his Highness bid me yield?” he asked, in a dull voice.

“He offers you safe-conduct for yourself and your garrison,” said the herald.

A bitter smile crossed the lips of the rebellious prelate.

“I thank his Highness for so much forbearance,” said he. “I will take counsel, and determine. My ambassadors shall wait upon him later.”

The herald bowed and took his leave.

The Cardinal-Count sat on, in a brooding silence that none dared disturb. He suffered horribly from the wound his pride had taken, and he cast about him for a salve that should assuage the pain of it. And then, suddenly, his counsellors, sitting mutely expectant, observed his dark eyes to harden and glitter evilly.

“Be it as you wish,” he said, in a level voice. “Surrender shall be made to-day. You have leave to go, sirs.” And he motioned them away.

Alone he sat there, clutching the arms of his chair, and smiling softly and cruelly to himself. Reggio must fall. But Cesare Borgia and his captains should not outlive their victory.

He rose, and went to strike a gong; then bade a servant summon his secretary, his seneschal and the captain of his garrison.

••••••

In the plain below, by the wood's edge, some tents had been pitched, Ferrante's amongst others, and in this sat Ferrante and his officers that afternoon to receive the ambassadors of the Cardinal-Count. The condottiero had gone far towards redeeming his character in the eyes of his lieutenants by the morning's manœuvres; yet Ramires, whilst lavishing praise of its astuteness, still wanted to know what Ferrante would have done had there been no fog, and Taddeo, whilst admitting and similarly praising that shrewd piece of humbug, was sceptical of its having the full effect that Ferrante looked for, and he wanted to know what was to happen if Messer Guancia still resisted.

Ferrante's good humour, however, was nothing damped. Things had sped so miraculously well for him that he could not but believe that his luck was flowing strongly; that he was right was proved presently when the ambassadors arrived.

They were three: Messer Annibale Guancia—generally reputed to be the Cardinal-Count's nephew, though scandalmongers alleged the kinship to be a nearer one—the captain of the garrison and the president of the council.

A crowd of men had surrounded them on their approach, and so hemmed them about that they had feared for their very lives and had been in no case to look round and take notice of the real extent of the Borgia forces. Thus they were hustled into Ferrante's presence.

Messer Annibale, the spokesman, looked from one to the other of the occupants of the tent, and blinked. Ferrante was seated, with Taddeo standing on one hand and Ramires on the other, both the lieutenants being armed at all points. At a small table to one side and rather behind them sat Fabio Orsini, quill in hand, a sheet of parchment unrolled before him.

“My errand,” Annibale announced, “is to the Duke of Valentinois' Excellency.”

“I am his Excellency's lieutenant, deputed by him to receive your errand,” answered Ferrante, very haughty. “His Excellency was expecting the Cardinal-Count in person, and would have conferred with him had he come. But to meet a deputy he sends a deputy. So say on, sir.”

Annibale hesitated a moment; but the point raised by Ferrante was a just one, and being moreover impressed by the calm assurance of these officers, he formally made offer of surrender in the lord of Reggio's name, subject to safe-conduct being granted to Reggio's defenders, one and all.

“That is to say, you accept the offer made you by the Duke's Highness. It is well.” He turned to Orsini. “Set it down.” he commanded. Then to the ambassadors: “Is there aught else?” he asked.

“A prayer, sir,” said Annibale.

“Prefer it.”

“My lord implores the Duke's Magnificence to spare the city occupation by so vast an army, or indeed by more than just such troops as it may be his good purpose to place in garrison. My lord having the well-being of this poor city at heart, and fearing for its inhabitants dire consequences of such an occupation…”

“Enough!” broke in Ferrante. “So much I have power to grant. Set it down, Fabio, that saving two hundred men of Messer della Volpe's foot, who are to garrison the city, Reggio di Monte's hospitality shall not be taxed by his Highness's troops.” Then to the envoy, “That, sir, I think, is all. It but remains to sign the articles of capitulation, and for his Highness or his deputy to receive the oath of fealty of the council.”

“The one and the other may be done in Reggio this night, and to that end my lord dares hope that the Duke's Excellency and the officers in his train will sup with him at the palace, when all may be amicably concluded.”

Ferrante's eyebrows went up in some astonishment at the request, and the envoy made haste to explain.

“It is my lord's most earnest wish to make his peace with the Holy Father and with the Duke; and he trusts that this his ready submission will weigh with them, and that, in earnest of forgiveness for his past resistance, his Magnificence will deign to accept my lord's hospitality.”

Ferrante considered a moment. “The Duke's Highness desires to show no harshness where he is not constrained to it,” he answered deliberately. “And, provided the citadel is in our hands by then, I can accept in his name the invitation of the Cardinal-Count.”

The envoy bowed. “You may proceed to occupy the citadel at once,” said he. “The captain of the garrison is here to tell you so.”

On that and some valedictory compliments the interview came to an end, and the ambassadors of Reggio were reconducted. An hour later Taddeo della Volpe marched two hundred of his foot into Reggio, and took possession of the citadel, whence he sent word to Ferrante that all had run a smooth course and that the Cardinal-Count's garrison—and it was a scant one—had disarmed.

Towards sunset Ferrante, accompanied by Ramires and Orsini, and escorted by a guard of honour of a hundred men-at-arms, rode into Reggio to sign the articles, receive the oath of fealty, and sup with the Cardinal-Count.

Under the deep archway of the gate he was met by Taddeo, the veteran's scarred face agrin now with satisfaction. He felt that he had his share in this amazingly easy victory, and that he would have his place in the brave tale that was to be told to Cesare Borgia. He came attended by a score of pikemen, and with these he now joined Ferrante's party. Together they proceeded towards the palace through streets that were lined with silent, timid, anxious townsfolk.

On the steps of the cloistered staircase that ascended from the vast courtyard of the old palace they found the majestic scarlet figure of the Cardinal-Count awaiting them. The fierce eagerness in his eyes was changed to disappointment when he learnt that Cesare Borgia was not with them. It was Ferrante who explained his master's absence.

Now Ferrante loved a jest so well that he was ever loth to keep one to himself. Indeed he found that the revelation of it to the person who had been the unconscious victim added an epilogue almost as humorous as the jest itself. The element of cruelty that was inherent in the man took pleasure in gloating over discomfiture and the humiliation of the arrogant, and he desired to see it savoured to the bitter full.

So now he must stand there, very debonair and smiling, and inform the Cardinal-Count, with the pleasantest manner in the world, not only that the Duke was absent, not only that he had never been present, but, further, the precise manner in which, by the help of the morning's mist, he had befooled the Cardinal-Count into surrendering an impregnable city to a mere detachment of a thousand men.

And he related it all with the gay and easy manner of one who expects his listener to laugh with him.

But no responsive laughter was there from the Cardinal-Count. Whiter and yet whiter grew his face as he realised the trick by which he had been cozened into opening his gates. Sterner and sterner grew his glance as he appraised that tall, graceful figure in pearl-grey silk with here and there a touch of violet to match the sweeping plumes in his grey hat, and in a voice harsh and quivering with rage he desired to be informed what gentlemen he was to have the honour of welcoming to his table.

“I am Ferrante da Isola,” said the condottiero, with conscious pride, and on that he presented one by one his three companions.

Messer Guancia smiled now; but his smile was not nice to see. “It remains for me,” he said, “to pay with the best grace I can command.”

“Why here,” cried Ferrante gaily, “is the spirit in which I love to see a jest accepted.”

But his officers felt chilled under the lord of Reggio's glance as he bade them welcome.

So great was the rage within the prelate, so overmastering his desire to be avenged upon these men who put this trick upon him, and upon this glib fellow who laughed of it to his face, that he forgot his disappointment at the absence of the Duke. He turned, with Ferrante at his side, and led the way up that grey staircase of carved stone and into the palace.

He had said that it remained for him to pay with the best grace he could command, and Ferrante had cried gaily that here was such a spirit as he loved. Well, well! He should love that spirit less when he knew more of it—when he discovered precisely what payment was intended. So ran the prelate's thoughts. They steadied him, and comforted him for the loss he had sustained.

With great deference and ceremony were Ferrante and his lieutenants led to table, and to keep them company and do them fitting honour there were a score or so of gentlemen and officers of Messer Guancia's following. Ferrante looked about him, and smiled. He knew no fear. Under his court finery he wore a mesh of steel, as did his comrades, and in the yard below his hundred men and Taddeo's twenty were under arms and within call.

They got to the superbly appointed table. At its head sat the Cardinal-Count, enthroned in a great gilded chair that was slightly raised above the level of the others. The rest disposed themselves with a careless disregard of precedence that Ferrante looked upon as odd. He found himself midway down the board—instead of on the Cardinal's right hand as was his due as the honoured guest, the representative of the Duke of Valentinois. Their host, he saw, was hemmed about by men of his own household, and none of the Borgia officers was within six men of him. Again he observed that he and his comrades had been effectively separated, so that on either hand of each were at least two of the gentlemen of Reggio. On his own left hand he had Messer Annibale—that nephew of the Cardinal-Count who had earlier come to him as an ambassador; on his right was a gentleman of lesser eminence.

Suspicion awoke then in the bosom of Messer Ferrante. Here all was not as it should be. What if he had walked into a trap? What if the prelate proposed to murder them, and then ring the bells and lead forth what force he could muster against a little army without officers? He and his fellows wore their swords, it was true, whilst the vanquished came ostentatiously without weapons. But in their robes they might have daggers hidden, and they were twenty men opposed to four. It had ever been a maxim of Ferrante's that who despises an enemy reinforces him; and he wondered, with an angry misgiving, could he have been guilty here of that dangerous error. He wondered, too, upon what pretext he might bring in a party of his guards. That pretext he had soon enough—of his own making. It was not for nothing that he was accounted the very prince of strategists.

He had been engaging his left-hand neighbour, Messer Annibale, in a trivial conversation, when a lacquey approached to serve him, bearing a great silver platter of brodetto of fish. In turning—as if by chance—Ferrante drove his elbow sharply into the fellow's side. Over went the platter of brodetto, and full half its contents were strewn upon the condottiero's delicate pearl-grey silk. Ferrante came to his feet in a magnificently simulated passion, and caught the lacquey a blow that sent him hurtling against the tapestried wall of the apartment.

“By the Passion!” he roared. “Are you no better served than this in Reggio?”

From the head of the table came the prelate's voice, apologetic and conciliatory; Messer Annibale, too, had risen, and was seeking to pacify the infuriated captain. His own companions—Taddeo, Ramires and Orsini—sought also to calm him and to recall him to some sense of good behaviour. But Ferrante waved all wrathfully aside, pushed back his chair, and strode doorwards, a mess of fish and savoury ingredients dripping from his ruined finery as he went. He tore aside the door-curtain with an angry hand, and in an angry voice he shouted for the men of Taddeo's foot.

The entire company had risen now, the Cardinal-Count among the rest, dismay and vexation overspreading his white face. “What would you do, my lord?” he asked. “This man has done no more than——”

“I have no concern with him,” Ferrante broke in rudely, facing the table again, and towering there, the very incarnation of wrath. “But if I am to sup with your Magnificence I'll not be served by swineherds and bathed in fish-stews. I'll have my soldiers to wait upon me and teach your lacqueys their trade.”

A dull flush was tinting the Cardinal-Count's cheekbones. “It shall be as you will, Most Excellent,” said he.

“I mean it so to be,” said Ferrante, snorting, and he turned to his men—a score of them—who thronged the threshold. “Lay aside your pikes,” he commanded, “and attend us here at table. So, my lord of Reggio, you shall see what service means.” And he came back to his place at the board.

His comrades began to understand, and so, too, did the Cardinal-Count—gathering understanding from the number Ferrante had bidden to attend them. He smiled a trifle scornfully. “You gentlemen of Rome have much to teach us,” said he, by way of restoring good humour in their ranks, and Ferrante laughed, and, his object being achieved, made haste to remove the constraint which his burst of anger had left upon the company. He had partly succeeded when the wine was brought. From the hands of the seneschal one of his men received a great jug of beaten gold on which was choicely figured the story of Bacchus and the Nymphs of Nysa.

With a clumsiness that made a mock of Ferrante's boast, the half-armoured man-at-arms clattered to the Cardinal-Count with his great jug. He was about to pour, when the prelate stayed him, covering his goblet with his hand.

“First to my guests,” said he, with a courtly smile; and good-humouredly he twitted Ferrante on the manners of his Ganymede. Ferrante took it in excellent part. Indeed, it was his design, now that he had gained his ends, to promote good feeling, or, at least, the outward seeming of it.

His own glass was filled and those of his three lieutenants, and upon that the seneschal snatched the jug from the soldier to replenish it—for all that there was not the need. Nor did he return it to him, for already a man-at-arms with a similar vessel, directed by the seneschal, was serving now the gentlemen of Reggio. No doubt the thing would have been less noticeably accomplished had the servants of the Cardinal-Count had the performing of it, as had been intended. Yet clumsily as it was done, and although half-consciously noticed by Ferrante at the time, he saw nothing unnatural in it, certainly nothing to arouse suspicion.

He reached for his goblet, and had it half-way to his lips, when over the rim of it his eyes met those of his host, It was no more than a transitory glance, for Ferrante, of intent, let his eyes sweep on, idly and unconcerned. But in that flash he had seen something that now gave him pause. It was not much; but men of a high order of intelligence, as was Ferrante, are of a singularly swift receptivity to impressions. The Cardinal-Count, he had observed, was watching him furtively from under lowered brows, a something cruel and cunning in his glance. Then it was that, as in a flash of recollection, he remembered his subconscious observation that the wine for his followers and himself had not been poured from the same jug as that which had supplied the gentlemen of Reggio. And that trifle, which he had scarcely noticed at the time, assumed now gigantic proportions in his mind. The wine before him and his three officers was poisoned! He knew it as much by intuition as by the slight evidences he had.

In some fraction of a second did all this flash through Ferrante's mind, and before that second was complete he had determined how to act.

Another in his place, and presuming upon the presence of his men-at-arms, would have risen there and then, and flung his accusation. Not so Ferrante. He would not have the laugh against him if, after all, he should be wrong; would not have it said that timidity had misled him. Besides, it pleased him to deal more subtly, more humorously, with Messer Guancia.

So he stayed himself in the very act of raising his goblet, and in the most natural manner—as one who has just bethought him of something that is of moment—he leaned across the board, and called to Orsini, who was seated some way below him on the opposite side. Orsini looked up.

“Your tablets,” said Ferrante. “I have remembered that I have a note to make.” And whilst Orsini fumbled for his tablets and Ferrante waited, leaning across the board, he took the opportunity to mutter two words quickly in Spanish to Ramires who sat immediately facing him.

“No bibas!” said he, under cover of the murmur of conversation about him, and trusting to the fact that, in Reggio, Spanish—particularly when it was slurred and muttered—would not be understood. By the quick lift of the Spaniard's eyebrows he saw that he had caught the words.

Ferrante sat back, and lest Messer Guancia should suspect his motives he leisurely lifted his goblet, and appeared to sip the wine. In reality he did no more than hold it a moment against his tightened lips, which he was careful to wipe when he set down the cup again.

The eyes of the Cardinal-Count became alight with satisfaction. But Ferrante was blind to this. His neighbour handed him Orsini's tablets. He opened them, and wrote the imperative command, “Drink not! Warn Taddeo.” He closed them and passed them back.

“Read what I have written, Fabio,” he said. “I wish you to bear it in your mind.”

Orsini obeyed him, and Ferrante admired the manner in which the youngster kept his countenance, and played his part. Fabio looked up smiling and nodded; then turned the tablets about in his hands as one who hesitates. At last, leaning over to della Volpe.

“I think this matter concerns you as much as it does me, Taddeo,” he said. “Does it not?” he added, and passed the tablets across to the veteran.

And he was no more than in time. He stayed Taddeo in the very act of lifting his cup. Taddeo read, was baffled for a moment, then understood, and nodded to Ferrante.

“I will see it done,” said he, and pocketed the tablets.

Ferrante heaved a sigh of infinite relief, and considered the second move in this queer game to which he had set his hand. In that instant the Cardinal-Count rose to his feet, and called upon his friends to quaff the health of their noble guests.

There was a premonitory scraping of chairs as the company prepared to rise. But Ferrante, swifter than the rest, leaped to his feet before them, snatching up his goblet as he did so.

“One moment ere you drink,” he cried, and with outspread left hand he stayed the company in the very act of rising. “Let me beg your Magnificence to resume your seat,” said he. “I have some words to say in my master's name touching the surrender of Reggio—a message for you, which I make no doubt will lead you the more gladly to pledge us, and him with us.”

His eyes sparkled, there was a delicate flush on his still youthful cheek. But neither of these signs was the herald of an eager eloquence, as those others deemed them. They were the outward manifestation of the delight that Ferrante took in this game of strategy he had set himself to play; this pitting of quick wits against the clumsy murderous plan of the Cardinal-Count. In anticipation, he was already relishing the deadly jest he had prepared.

“My message to you,” he began—and carelessly, abstractedly, as he spoke, he passed the goblet into his left hand, “is a message of good will. Had bloodshed been necessary ere Reggio di Monte had raised her gates to us——”

He broke off abruptly, staring at the Cardinal-Count.

“What ails your Excellency?” he cried, alarm ringing loud in his question.

Instantly all eyes were turned upon the lord of Reggio, all necks were craned that men might obtain a better view of the prelate, who sat back, blinking in surprise. In that moment Ferrante's left hand set down his cup beside Messer Annibale's. His eyes never left the Cardinal's face.

“Why nothing ails me,” said the prelate, nonplussed. “I am well.”

Ferrante's fingers closed now over the stem of Annibale's goblet. His own body thrust forward screened the act from those below him on his side. Annibale's body, similarly placed, allowed the lord of Reggio to see nothing of it. For the rest, all eyes were too intent upon the Cardinal-Count to observe that swift exchange, and ere any glances returned to Ferrante he was holding his goblet at the height of his breast, as they had last beheld him.

“A trick of the lights, perhaps,” laughed Ferrante. “It seemed to me that your Excellency had turned pale, and that you sank back exhausted.”

“No, no,” said the prelate, with a reassuring smile. “I am well. I may have sat back. No more than that. Continue, pray, Messer Ferrante.”

Ferrante continued—a rambling speech full of words of great sound but little meaning, out of which it transpired that the people of Reggio might rest assured that in the Lord Cesare Borgia they would find an overlord to care for them as for his very children. It was hardly what he had seemed to promise at the outset, and it provoked the secret scorn of most of the Lord Guancia's friends. When he had done he raised his goblet on high.

“I drink,” he said, “to the peace and prosperity of Reggio di Monte, and to the success and victory of our Duke's arms.”

And slowly, with head well back, he drained his cup.

Whoever pledged Cesare Borgia, as he had called upon them to do, he was sure that the Cardinal-Count would not; and he observed that the prelate did no more than make a pretence of sipping at his cup, what time he watched Ferrante with evil, exulting eyes.

Ferrante's officers watched him, too, their eyes dilating with alarm, whilst in obedience to his message of warning they did no more than pretend to touch their wine.

But one or two there were who drank, and among these was Messer Annibale, the Cardinal's nephew. No doubt the luscious fare of his uncle's table had quickened his thirst, for he drained his cup to the dregs ere he set it down.

And then, as Ferrante was resuming his seat, the Cardinal still watching him—Messer Annibale uttered a scream, clutched at his girdle as if to loosen it, and went over backwards, taking his chair with him. Chair and man crashed to the ground. Out of it rolled the nephew of the Cardinal-Count, and some little way along the floor; then he lay prone, his legs drawn under him, his contracted hands clawing at the tesselated floor, whilst his drawn mouth emitted scream after scream of anguish.

That and other horrid sounds rang upon the panic-stricken silence. The gelid hand of terror closed about the hearts of that noble company. Stricken sat all, with white faces and staring eyes, no face more white, no eyes more wide, than the lord of Reggio's own. Soldiers and servants stood aghast, and most aghast of all the seneschal who had handed out the poisoned wine and feared now—as feared his master—that there had been an error in the jugs.

Ferrante covertly watched the ghastly face of Messer Guancia during the time of his nephew's cruelly long-drawn agony; he watched, and waited until the figure on the ground lay mercifully still. Then he rose once more, the only one at ease in that assembly. Mockery smouldered in his eyes and curled his strong lips as he broke the awful silence.

“It seems, my lord of Reggio,” said he, “that here is some mistake. Your seneschal has lacked the care that is so necessary when it is proposed to serve the guests with poisoned wine. It seems that you have been caught in your own toils.”

An effeminate youth across the board, who had no doubt drunk freely, uttered a piercing scream, and fell forward in a swoon. Ferrante smiled inwardly to see his plans thus furthered by the terror of a fool.

“Ramires,” said he quietly, “send up a score of men. Then close the gates, and make yourself master of the palace.”

Ramires went out. The dozen men that had come to fill the place of lacqueys sprang to their pikes at a word from Ferrante.

“Sirs,” said he amiably to the company, “you will assemble at that end of the chamber—all save my lord, the Cardinal-Count.” And seeing a hand or two steal furtively to the breast of a doublet: “The man who bares a weapon,” he told them fiercely, “shall be strangled out of hand in the yard below. Be warned, sirs! I do not lack the means to constrain the unwilling!”

And they went, a flock of frightened sheep, all but three—the lord of Reggio, the one who was dead and the one who had fainted. Taddeo's pikemen, reinforced now by a score of others that Ramires had brought in, stood guard over them, a line of bristling steel through which none was mad enough to attempt to break.

Ferrante turned once more to the Cardinal-Count, Messer Guancia sat gripping the arms of his chair, but showing no other sign of life. The condottiero said but one word to him, said it pointing to the goblet that stood, almost untasted, before the prelate.

“Drink!”

The wits of the Cardinal-Count were in a mist; but at that sharp word of command they sought to struggle through. He stirred, shrank farther back into his chair at first. Then he reared his head and sought to summon courage to his glance and bearing that he might mask the terror inspired him by that cup which he believed to contain poison, but which Ferrante knew did not.

“I will not drink,” he answered.

Ferrante shrugged his shoulders. “We shall see,” he said, and called a soldier to him. “I make you Messer Guancia's gaoler,” said he. “You will lock him in this chamber with a soldier to guard him constantly, and you shall give him neither meat nor drink until in the guard's presence he shall have consumed that cup of wine.” He turned to his officers. “Come, sirs. Here is no more to do.”

His men-at-arms drove the gentlemen of Reggio out of the chamber and out of the palace, of which Ferrante remained in full possession. And ere they sought their beds he explained to his mystified lieutenants how he had juggled the affair, how fooled the Cardinal-Count for the second time that day.

“And now he sits there,” he ended, smiling, “with a cup of wine before him that is as wholesome and innocent as the milk he suckled in his infancy, yet believing it poisoned he dares not touch it; sooner will he suffer agonies of hunger and of thirst; possibly he may even die sooner than set lips to it. Is it not humorous?”

“It is horrible,” said Orsini, shuddering.

“It is just,” said Taddeo; and Ramires nodded.

“It is merciful,” Ferrante protested. “Another would have had him strangled. When he can endure no more, let him drink, and I'll punish him no further.”

Next morning they went betimes to pay the prisoner a visit. They found him huddled in his great gilded chair, his scarlet robes drawn close about him. Before him on the table stood the tall gold goblet still untouched. As they entered he looked up at them with wild, blood-injected eyes. His face was ashen to the lips.

They considered him a while in silence. Then Ferrante spoke. ”You are very obstinate, my lord,” said he. “You have but to drink to obtain release.”

It was intentionally an ambiguous speech, and the Cardinal-Count's only reply was a shudder. Ferrante changed the guard and departed with his officers.

They returned at evening, and found the scene unchanged—the old man huddled in his chair; the tall goblet standing on the board before him. But early next morning word was brought Ferrante that he had died in the night, and Ferrante called his officers and repaired with them at once to the great chamber.

There they found the long scarlet figure lying prone, already stiff and cold.

“How is this?” Ferrante asked the sentry.

“He drank some of the wine at midnight,” replied the soldier, “and he died upon the instant almost.”

Ferrante's brows went up; his officers muttered their astonishment. He crossed to the table, and peered into the goblet. It was more than half full. He smiled thoughtfully. It was not the end he had expected, but it was very curious; it was most quaintly humorous in its way. The man had been fulminated by his terror; destroyed by his imagination.

As he stood there, considering the dead prelate, Ferrante gave utterance to his thoughts.

“Most strange,” said he, “how deadly a man's terrors may become. Beware of fear, my friends; it is man's worst enemy. It has laid this one low. He thought that he drank poison—and there he lies, poisoned; poisoned by his own imagination, for he drank no other.” And he stirred the body thoughtfully with his foot.

“Impossible!” cried Taddeo.

“There is some mistake in this,” added Ramires.

Ferrante looked at them and sneered. “It is the way of you; you can see no more than what is placed before you—not always that. This wine,” he said, taking up the goblet, “is as free from poison as when it was first crushed. Behold the proof of it.” And bearing it to his lips he drained the cup.

Then he hurled it from him with a force that sent it crashing against the wall. He reeled a moment, his hands to his face; stood for another instant fighting for breath and rocking on his feet; then his knees gave way and he fell supine, with arms outstretched—dead.

In the Cardinal-Count's right hand they found anon the explanation. It clutched a phial that gave off an acrid scent as of bitter almonds. The rest was easily imagined. The lord of Reggio, deeming himself doomed beyond all hope, and assured that sooner or later he must die by this cup of wine which he believed was poisoned, or else perish slowly of hunger and of thirst, had determined to drink, and so have done. But remembering the long-drawn agony of his nephew, which he had witnessed, and seeking at least to avoid the like, he had determined to increase the poison in the wine, and had emptied into it the phial which, it so chanced, he still had with him.

And that is the story of the passing of Messer Ferrante da Isola, and of the jest that killed him.