The Justice of the Duke (collection)/Gismondi's Age

by Rafael Sabatini

 

GISMONDI'S WAGE

Benvenuto Gismondi, thief and scoundrel, rode slowly northward along the old Æmilian Way, upon a stolen horse. The country all about him was a white glare of sun-drenched snow. Before him stretched the long straight road, of a less virgin whiteness, and in the distance—some four miles away—loomed hazily the spires of Forlimpopoli.

Benvenuto ambled on, cursing the cold and the emptiness of his stomach, and thrusting the numbed fingers first of one hand then of the other into his capacious mouth for warmth. His garments, that once had been fine, were patched and shabby; his boots were ragged, and in places a livid gleam from his sword peeped through the threadbare velvet scabbard. On his head he wore an old morion, much dinted and rusted, by which he thought to give himself a military air; from under this appeared long wisps of his unkempt black hair, to flutter like rags about his yellow neck. His white pock-marked face, half-hidden in a black fur of beard, was the most villainous in Italy.

He was in sad case. There was too much respect for the property of others demanded in the Romagna these days, since the Lord Cesare Borgia had come to rule there, and such men as Benvenuto Gismondi were finding it difficult to make a living. For there was nothing heroic about Benvenuto's villainy. He was no reckless masnadiero, to demand fat purses at point of sword in the open country. There were risks in that profession which he had no desire to face. He was essentially a town thief—of the kind that lurks in doorways on dark nights awaiting the chance to put a knife into the back of some wayfarer and, thereafter, plundering the corpse at leisure. And of that class the Lord Cesare Borgia had all but made an end in the cities where he ruled.

Therefore was Messer Benvenuto on his travels. He was for the north—for Bologna, perhaps, or even Milan—anywhere where an honest God-fearing thief might ply his trade undisturbed by the excessive zeal of a meddling podestà. But he went with no good grace; he had matter for grievance in this enforced departure out of the Romagna; for he was a Romagnuolo to the core of him, and he loved his native land, accounting all others barbarous. Besides, in Cesena there was a certain sloe-eyed Giannozza, deep-bosomed and hipped like an amphora—the Hebe of the “Half-Moon” Inn—who had stirred our hero very violently to love, as he understood the emotion. The thought of her and of the warm luxuriance of her charms was torture to him as he rode there on the snow-spread Æmilian Way, whipped by the keen north wind; and it caused him to curse more bitterly than ever that Pope's bastard whom he blamed for his misfortunes.

In the distance, a mere speck as yet on that eternity of a road, a horseman was approaching. But Benvenuto had no concern with him. His concern was entirely with his own distress, and particularly with the gnawings of his stomach. Beyond Forlimpopoli he could not go fasting. There were limits to a man's endurance. Yet how was he to find a meal? He might sell his horse. But without a horse, how should he reach Bologna, or still more distant Milan? Besides, what should such as he be doing with such a horse for sale? There would be questions, not a doubt of that—there were always questions now in this distraught country—and if his answers failed to satisfy the questioners, as like as not they'd hang him. They were a deal too free with their hangings nowadays.

He ambled on, disconsolate; almost desperate enough for valour. Nearer drew the other horseman, and Benvenuto began to take an interest in him. He began to wonder whether a bold, browbeating manner and a harsh voice might produce a purse, and he began to wonder whether, if he set his mind to it, he could not sustain the one and the other. He shivered, and his yellow teeth chattered. Before resolving he would wait and see what manner of man was this who came alone and at so brisk a speed. Meanwhile he unsheathed his heavy sword and held it naked in his left hand, ready for work but concealed in the folds of his ragged cloak. Thus he rode amain to meet this wayfarer.

As the other drew nearer, Benvenuto observed that he was well mounted and very richly dressed, wearing a quilted brigandine—a garment that is dagger-proof—and over that a cloak of wine-coloured velvet heavily trimmed with lynx fur. At still closer quarters Benvenuto observed that he was young and of a very noble air, and he remarked the heavy gold chain that lay upon his breast, the jewelled brooch that held the black plume in his velvet cap. He concluded that here was a nut worth cracking.

He watched the fellow furtively as they drew together, and edged his horse towards the middle of the road so that they must pass each other at close quarters. The young man scarce glanced at him; he rode absorbed in his own thoughts. Benvenuto fell to trembling violently and his courage went near to deserting him completely. But he braced himself at the last moment, and as the stranger passed abreast of him he stood up suddenly in his stirrups, flashed up his sword, and aimed with all his strength a blow at that young head.

Too late the stranger saw the movement and the weapon. His hands tightened on his reins even as the murderous stroke descended. He swayed a second; being smitten, and then plunged downwards from the saddle. His frightened horse broke away at the gallop. The young man's spur hung in the stirrup, nor was released until he had been dragged a dozen paces through the snow. He lay there, and the horse, unhampered now and unchecked, sped on like a mad thing.

Benvenuto wheeled and rode up to the fallen man. For some minutes he sat breathing hard and grinning, as he considered that figure supine there in the snow, grinning too, but breathing not at all. Free of the confining cap, which had fallen off and lay some way behind, the youth's fair hair was flung back from the head and embrued from the wound that had been dealt him. Blood, too, lay in small patches along the trail made by his body as it was dragged.

Benvenuto looked back along the road towards Forlimpopoli, and forward towards Cesena. No living thing was in sight. So, well content, he got down from his horse to reap the harvest of his bloody work. But the rich raiment that had tempted him with its promise into daring so much now seemed to mock him. He rose from an almost fruitless search, cursing the poverty of the dead man's pockets, and weighing in his palm the gold chain he had taken from his victim's neck and a silken purse containing but three gold ducats. His prize, it seemed, was gilt, not solid gold.

To have risked so much for so little, angered him. To have been put to the necessity of killing a man to earn three gold pieces and a trumpery chain was an irony practised upon him by an unfriendly fate He reflected that to commit murder was a grave matter. It was to imperil the salvation of his immortal soul—and Messer Benvenuto accounted himself a truly devout and pious fellow, a dutiful son of Mother Church. He had a special devotion for the black Madonna of Loreto, and was a member of the Confraternity of St Anna, whose scapular he wore day and night upon his dirty skin.

It was by no means the first time he had killed a man; but never had he been so poorly compensated for the mortal sin and the risk of hell which the deed entailed.

He glanced down at the blue-white face of his victim, and it seemed to him that the dead eyes were leering with evil, conscious mockery. A panic seized him. He turned, snatched his horse's bridle, flung himself shuddering into the saddle and rode off. Twenty paces away he reined in again. He was behaving like a fool. The man's cloak with its heavy lynx fur was worth at least five ducats; and there was a jewel in his cap.

He went back, and in going he pondered. What should he do with a rich cloak? To sell it would be no easier than to sell his horse. Out of that train of thought came inspiration. The dead man could give him all he lacked, and never feel the loss of it, being dead.

He dismounted again, tethered his horse by the road side, and set about his horrid task. But first he closed those hideously mocking eyes. To propitiate the departed spirit he even went so far as to kneel there, in the slush and snow, and patter a prayer for its repose. Then he set to work. He took the body under the armpits, and dragged it from the road. Down into the broad ditch and up again into the field beyond he dragged it. There, with chattering teeth and fingers that shook so that his work was retarded despite his frenzy of haste, he stripped the dead youth of his dagger-proof brigandine of quilted velvet, his under vest of silk, his great boots of grey leather, and his trunk-hose. Next he stripped away his own greasy rags, shuddering all the while and making queer whimpering noises—partly because the cold was punishing him acutely, partly because of other things.

There in the bright January sun he arrayed himself piece by piece in the gay plumage of the cockerel he had plucked. Thus he should travel in ease and dignity to Milan; thus command respect and courteous treatment—matters with which his acquaintance hitherto had been subjective. Thus should many a door be opened to him and many an opportunity discovered.

The dead man was much of his own proportions; even the boots, one of which he had already donned, should comfortably encase his feet. As he took up the second boot he discovered a certain stiffness on the inside of the leg. He fingered it, bending the leather in his hand; the matter intrigued him. He ran his fingers over the other boot; there was no corresponding stiffness there. Again he returned to the one he had not yet donned; and now a foxy gleam shone from his close-set eyes; thoughtfully he rubbed his long lean nose. That something was hidden in that boot was very clear; and it was a common enough hiding-place. Now a thing that is worth one man's while to hide is, reflected Messer Benvenuto, worth another man's while to find. It looked as if this enterprise of his were not to be so fruitless as he had at first supposed.

To rip the outer leather from the lining was a moment's work. Then from the gap he drew a package of papers wrapped in a blank sheet on the edge of which was the broken half of a green seal. It was held together by some threads of silk. To snap these threads and to fling off the wrapper took Messer Benvenuto no longer than it takes to blink an eye. He spread one of the three contained sheets, and ran his glance over the large angular hand that sprawled across it.

It was a letter couched in Latin, and from that letter our rascal gathered, first and foremost, that his victim's name was Crespi, and that Faenza was his native place. He learned what more there was to learn; for Ser Benvenuto was no illiterate clod. A fond mother had vowed him to the Church, and so he had perforce done his humanities, and for all that years were sped since then, he had not yet forgotten that Latin tongue which so painfully he had acquired. His eyes gleamed as they followed and spelled out the sprawling characters. Here indeed was matter that might be worth a hundred times its weight in gold. But not here in the open would he stand to investigate the full value of his prize. Someone might chance to come that way, and find him there with the incriminating body. He looked about.

In the far distance, towards Forlimpopoli, specks were moving along the road. A cavalcade approaching; though no sound reached him yet. In haste he thrust the papers into his bosom, and his foot into the boot—never heeding that his stocking was all wet from standing in the snow. Then he took Messer Crespi's sword, and buckled it about his loins; lastly he snatched up the cloak, shook the snow from it, and flung it jauntily upon his own shoulders. Of his own discarded rags he made a bundle, and with this he sprang back to the road. There yet remained Messer Crespi's cap, which still lay where it had fallen. He took it up. It was slashed across the crown; but, being very ample of folds, this was easily dissembled, and there was no blood on the outside and little on the inside of it. But there was something else inside it—a black mask, a complete vizor for the face, such as gentlemen sometimes wore when they went abroad.

Benvenuto replaced it in the crown of the cap, and set the latter a-top his lank, ill-kempt black hair. In his finery his countenance—half-wolf, half-fox—looked more villainous than ever.

He glanced over his shoulder, at the little cavalcade, still very distant; then he got to horse and set off. But he no longer rode northward; he was returning in his tracks; returning to Cesena, urged to this course by the papers he had discovered. For at Cesena lay Cesare Borgia himself, in winter quarters, and Benvenuto's business now was with Cesare Borgia, whom these papers so very closely touched. The Duke's open-handedness was a byword. Benvenuto pondered that liberality of the Duke's, and relished the reflection that he bore him matter to cause him to open his hands wide indeed.

Having ridden a mile or so, Benvenuto flung his bundle of rags into the ditch. He saw it sink through the half-frozen crust of snow, and pushed on unburdened.

Presently he drew forth the papers again, that he might complete their perusal. This warmed him to the very core. He had done a glorious, a patriotic thing, it seemed, in disposing of this Messer Crespi—whoever he might be. And he was clearly clean of sin; since who kills a murderer is no worse than who robs a thief. That Messer Crespi was a murderer—a very desperate murderer—these letters fully showed, for they revealed a barbarous plot against the life of no less a person than the High and Mighty Lord Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois and Romagna. They showed Messer Crespi to have been one of a band of patriots from various states of the Romagna—the letters did not disclose how many—who had leagued themselves to do this work. They moved in secret, he gathered, and were not known one to another, to lessen the dangers of betrayal. This was plain, since Messer Crespi was bidden to come masked to the assembly that was to be held that very night in the Palazzo Magli, in Cesena, But the leader, the inspirer, the soul and brain of the conspiracy, was evidently known to all; for he signed the letter, and his name was Hermes Bentivogli—the name of as bloody and treacherous a tyrant as lived in Italy, the murderer of the Marescotti, the son of Giovanni Bentivogli, Lord of Bologna.

Benvenuto was, himself—as you have gathered—no lover of Cesare Borgia, and, far from deploring his assassination, he would have hailed his slayer as a hero among heroes. But a man of his peculiar temperament is not to be expected to sink self-interest in political considerations, and to forgo the chance of doing Cesare Borgia a service for which Cesare Borgia should reward him with a pretty, twinkling heap of golden ducats.

Benvenuto had those ducats very clear in his imagination. He saw them piled before him on the dirty table of the “Half-Moon” Inn; saw the yellow, rippling gleam of them; heard the rustle and chink of the heap as it was stirred. He saw the black eyes of his luscious Giannozza grow big at the sight of so much gold; he felt her soft, warm body yielding generously at last to his embraces.

Oh, most brightly shone the star of Messer Benvenuto Gismondi, thief and scoundrel. His fortune rose in a neap tide. And in the pleasant consideration of this heartening fact he rode across the bridge over the Savio, and so entered the strong city of Cesena.

First to the Half-Moon to leave his horse in charge of the gaping, cross-eyed landlord—Giannozza's puny and most unworthy sire; then to a barber's to have his hair and beard trimmed combed and perfumed, that that part of him should be in harmony with the whole; then back to the Half-Moon to dine in an inner chamber which he had bespoken, with Giannozza to bring his meat and pour his wine.

In the common-room men stared at him, as he swept through; and he, perceiving this, broke upon Giannozza in the inner chamber with the exclamation,

“Behold me—a jewel set in brass.”

Giannozza, hand on hip, measured him with some wonder and more mistrust in her bold, black eyes. She was a handsome baggage, full conscious of it, gracefully sluggish, and very insolent.

“You are soon returned,” said she, and added uncompromisingly the question—“What villany have you been working?”

“Villany?” quoth he. “Nay, now—villany!”

“Whence, else, your fine feathers? What gull have you been plucking?”

He took her in his arms, and pulled her to him, leering; she permitting it with a cool indifference. “I have taken service, sweet,” he announced.

“Service, thou? With Satan?”

“With the Lord Cesare Borgia,” said he—for, being a thief, it naturally follows that he was a facile liar. Though as a liar you do not here see him at his best; for, after all, what he now stated might be construed into intelligent anticipation.

“Has he hired you for his murderer?” she inquired, with the cool insolence that was a part of her.

“I am his saviour,” he announced, and fell into big but obscure talk of services rendered and to be rendered, and more of the rich guerdons that were to fall to him of the Duke's bounty; she listening, her red lips curling into a lazy smile of insolent unbelief in him. In the end that smile so angered him that he flung her off rudely, and sat down.

“I am to confer with his Magnificence to-day,” he announced. “He awaits me at the castle. You'll believe me when I spread his ducats before your big, fool's eyes. Oho! Ser Benvenuto will be ben venuto then!”

She thrust out her heavy lip at him.

“Dost sneer at me, thou trull?” he bellowed, furious. Then with a superior air, “Bestir!” he bade her. “Bring meat and wine. The Lord Duke of Valentinois awaits me. Bestir, I say!”

She looked him over from under half-closed lids, and sneered audibly.

“You knock-kneed, pock-marked foulness,” said she. “What airs be these?”

He choked with fury—the more hurt because the straightness of his legs was the pride of one who could lay claim to few physical advantages. He set aside his anger, to argue the matter. But she cut him short.

“Such airs as yours cost money,” she informed him. “Where is your purse?”

He produced a ducat, and banged it resonantly upon the dirty table. At the unexpected sight of that yellow disc her eyes widened in surprise and greed, and her manner underwent an instant change. She bustled now in preparation for his meal; fetched a bottle from the cellar, and from the kitchen a steaming shoulder of roast kid, exuding a rich savoury smell of garlic. She placed white bread before him—a rare luxury that—and flung logs upon the fire.

He, being very hungry, forgot what remained of his recent anger, and fell to with a relish; so that for a while the dingy chamber re-echoed with the prodigious sounds of his eating and drinking. Anon, his vigour abating, he bestowed some attention upon the girl as she moved about the chamber with the indolent, feline grace that was natural to her. The food heartened him; and what with the wine and the great fire that roared now in the chimney and threw fantastic light and. shadow through the gloomy room, Messer Benvenuto was pervaded by a pleasant torpor.

“Sit here beside me, Giannozza,” he besought her, pulling gently at her plump arm.

“And his Magnificence of Valentinois? Does he no longer await you?” quoth she, with her lazy sneer.

He scowled. “A plague on his Magnificence,” he grumbled, and fell thoughtful. It was very snug and pleasant here, and outside it was chill and bleak, and there was snow on the ground. And yet—surely it was worth the trouble of walking up to the castle to have his cap filled with ducats!

He rose and strode to the window. He looked out upon a slushy stableyard and a patch of turquoise sky. The afternoon was waning, and the thing must be done that afternoon or not at all.

“Ay, I must go, sweet. But I'll be away no longer than I must.” He took up his cloak, and swathed it about him, planted the plumed cap upon his ugly head, kissed her noisily—she suffering it with that same detestable apathy—and swaggered out.

••••••

Benvenuto took his way to the main street, and then up the hill towards the citadel, the huge Rocca built by the great Sigismondo Malatesta.

Unchallenged he gained the bridge, whence the snow had been swept into the moat below. He crossed it, going with a certain nervousness now, and certain tremblings of spirit which increased with the thud of each step of his upon the timbers.

His imagination set an august and fearful majesty about this duke whom he had never seen, but whose name was known to all men and feared by most. He felt as one about to enter the presence of things super natural, and he went with such an awe as in his early infancy had attended his first visits to a church.

He had crossed the bridge and stood in the shadow of the great archway, under the portcullis. Strange that no one should be there to ask his business. Strange that the place harbouring that godlike being should be so easy of approach.

There was a sudden clank, and a halbert flashed before him and was poised on a level with his breast. Benvenuto jumped for very fright. A man-at-arms in morion, corselet and cuissarts had stepped out from behind a buttress where he was sheltering from the wind, and had levelled his pike to bar our hero's passage.

“Alto là? Whither do you go?”

Benvenuto stammered a moment, flung out of countenance by this sudden apparition of a natural foe—a representative, however humble, of law and power. Then he recovered.

“I seek the Lord Duke of Valentinois,” he announced.

The pike was lowered, recovered and ground with a thud. “Pass on,” said the entry, and drew back once more behind the sheltering buttress.

Benvenuto went forward, his uneasiness increasing with his surprise at the readiness of his admission. This was not well, he reasoned. Out of a place so easy to enter, it might be difficult to depart again. His conscience and his nerves played tricks upon him. He wished that he had remained in the snug parlour of the “Mezza Luna” with the delectable Giannozza, and never ventured thus into the shrine of this awful divinity. For he stood by now shivering in the courtyard of the fortress, and not even the prospect of the ducats to be earned served to encourage him. He wished them at the devil. Presently he braced himself; inwardly mocked his own fears; reassured himself in part; and looked about him.

The court was deserted, save for two sentries—one pacing at the foot of a stone staircase that led up to a gallery on the first floor; the other guarding a deep archway that led to an inner court. Thence came a murmur of voices, and as Benvenuto peered in that direction he saw that it was thronged with people.

The sentries paid no heed to him; but he considered them attentively. The man guarding the staircase was a sturdy, swarthy fellow of forbidding countenance; the other, a tall fair-bearded knave, looked benign and friendly. Benvenuto's choice was made. He advanced with simulated resoluteness towards the archway and the yellow-bearded guard.

“I seek the Lord Duke of Valentinois,” he announced, dissembling as best he might his tremors. “Where shall I find him?”

The guard looked at him. If the livid, pock-marked face was villainous, the clothes were noble; and whilst to a courtier Messer Benvenuto must have looked a lacquey, to a lacquey he looked a courtier. So without hesitation the guard stood aside before him, and pointed with his pike into the inner courtyard.

“His Highness is in there.”

Benvenuto passed on, and, as he went, the sounds from the inner court he was approaching died suddenly away. The crowd had fallen into silence. It greatly intrigued him to know what might be taking place. On the far side of the archway he tapped the arm of a sentry, who stood on a horse block, gazing over the heads of the people assembled there—a motley gathering of perhaps a hundred men of all conditions, in which, however, the soldier and the courtier predominated. The man-at-arms looked down impatiently, and Benvenuto repeated that he sought the Lord Duke of Valentinois.

“He is yonder,” said the guard, pointing into the heart of the throng.

Benvenuto was intrigued. What was taking place? He stood on tip-toe; but being short of stature he gained nothing by it. Suddenly the crowd broke into cheers and hand-clappings. Again Benvenuto plucked the sentry's sleeve.

“My business with his Highness presses,” he urged. “It is of the first importance. I must see him instantly.”

The guard considered him. “I doubt you'll have to wait,” said he. He pointed to a page in scarlet and yellow, who, astride a cannon by the wall, was shouting and clapping his hands. “Best tell him,” said the soldier. “He'll take your message for you as soon as may be.”

Benvenuto thanked him and went on, pressing unceremoniously past one or two who blocked his way. He spoke to the page politely; he shouted to him; finally he shook him by the leg, and thus gained at last his attention.

“I seek the Lord Duke of Valentinois,” he said for the fourth time since liis arrival in that fortress. “It is a very pressing matter—a matter of life and death.”

The page looked him over superciliously, and grinned. “You'll have to wait,” he answered. “His Highness is busy over there.”

“Over there?” echoed Benvenuto. But the page took no further heed of him. Whereupon, determined to see what might be taking place, Benvenuto climbed on to the gun, behind the boy. Thence he could see over the heads of the throng, and what he saw surprised him.

These spectators formed a ring, from which all snow had been swept. In the centre of this two men faced each other, alert, and with hands held slightly forward. Both were naked to the waist, and they contrasted oddly. One was tall, big-limbed and heavy—a very giant—swarthy, black-bearded, and hairy as a goat about the trunk and limbs; the other, tall also, yet not quite so tall, was of a slenderness that looked delicate by comparison; his long hair and crisp beard were of an auburn fairness, and his naked torso was smooth, and of a gleaming, alabaster whiteness. They were wrestlers about to come to grips, and Benvenuto pitied the comely, white-fleshed fellow, with a contemptuous pity, and looked forward with interest to the mauling he must receive in the embrace of that great bear of a man to whom he was opposed.

Then Benvenuto scanned the foremost ranks of the spectators, looking for one whose regal presence must proclaim the Duke. He beheld several very noble-looking gentlemen; but he was left in doubt as to which of them might be Cesare Borgia, and meanwhile the wrestlers were locked in combat, swaying this way and that, as first one heaved and then the other. The only sound in the courtyard was the sharp hiss of their breath, the quick patter of their shifting feet, and the smack of their hands upon each other's body.

Benvenuto watched, amazed at the fair man's ability to resist so long. He had his fingers locked now about the giant's neck, and was exerting his might and weight to pull the fellow forward and throw him off his balance. And as he put forth his strength, Benvenuto was surprised by the sudden ripple of muscle and sinew upon the smooth, alabaster back. Protuberances as large as apples appeared suddenly under the wrestler's shoulder-blades, whilst from either side of his spine leaped tight ropes of unsuspected power. Clearly the fellow was none so soft as he might seem at a first glance. Yet here his efforts were all vain. As well might he have sought to move a bull. The giant stood with legs wide and feet firmly planted, resisting the exertions of the other.

Then in a flash he moved; wrenched his neck free; seized his opponent about the waist, and swung him from the ground. And then, before he could use his unquestionable advantage, his opponent's two hands had caught him by the chin, and were forcing his head back with such harsh violence that he was compelled to abandon his hold.

They fell apart, breathing hard, very wary or each other.

The page turned a white excited face to Benvenuto. “Madonna!” swore the Stripling. “He all but had him then!”

“Who is the fellow?” asked Benvenuto.

“A blacksmith from Cattolica,” answered the boy “They say he has not his match for strength in the Romagna.”

“Ay; but the other—the white-fleshed cockerel?”

The lad stared at him. “Why—whence are you? From the Indies or the new world of Messer Colombo? That is his highness the Duke of Valentinois.”

Benvenuto stared back at the page, and frowned. “Look you, young sir,” said he, “do you seek to make a fool of me?”

“Diavolo!” said the pert boy. “Who am I to improve upon God's work?”

And then a shout from the crowd drew the attention of both back to the ring.

The fair wrestler had stooped, evaded the blacksmith's long arms, and seizing him by the legs had hoisted him from the ground. But the smith's great hands had closed about the other's neck, and so neutralised the hold, making a throw impossible—for by their rules a throw was no throw in which the thrower went down with the thrown. The shout had been raised while the matter was in doubt, and when it seemed that the blacksmith must suffer defeat, and the word that Benvenuto caught from a hundred throats was “Duca! Duca!”

It informed him that the page had spoken truth; but the surprise of it almost stunned him. Was that, indeed the Duke? That Cesare Borgia? That the demigod whose presence he had approached with such overwhelming awe?

Why, he was no better than another. A duke who wrestled with blacksmiths in the courtyard of his own castle! Faugh! Was that a duke to be feared?

Now that he had seen this pope's bastard, Benvenuto felt himself every inch his equal. What false attributes—he reflected—are bestowed by man's imaginings upon the great! Cesare Borgia was a man like any other—and he wrestled with blacksmiths! He should pay Benvenuto handsomely for the information Benvenuto brought him. No longer would Benvenuto be afraid to demand full value for his wares.

Meanwhile the combat assumed a greater interest in his eyes, and he watched it, marvelling at the folly of this duke. To be a duke and to permit himself to be rudely handled in this fashion! Like enough there would be broken bones under that white skin of his before all was done. It was not thus that Benvenuto understood the trade of dukes; not thus that he had conceived them. Rich wines, a well-spread table, a soft couch, abundance of minstrels to soothe him with their music, and the brightness of female eyes to gladden him. These, Benvenuto had ever conceived to be the natural attributes of dukeship. This rough-and-tumble with blacksmiths in a courtyard on a winter day held no place in his conception.

The page was giving him information. “His Highness has promised fifty ducats to any man who can throw him.”

Lackaday! Fifty ducats for such a service! Oh, the Duke was a queer fellow—but most ducally open-handed, as people said; and Benvenuto smiled to think of the tax he should presently levy upon that open-handedness.

Meanwhile, the wrestlers were at grips again, more vigorously than ever; and, as he watched them, Benvenuto was lost in wonder of the Duke's amazing agility. He seemed compact of springs of steel, so lithe and swift were all his movements, so pantherine his step, his crouch, his leap. The end seemed now to Benvenuto less a foregone conclusion than at first. For the brute might of the Colossus appeared to spend itself against the supple strength of the young Duke.

The end came suddenly. Before men realised it, all was done. The blacksmith made a sudden rush to grapple his opponent. The Duke, to avoid him, swung aside from the hips, leaving his feet firmly planted; as the giant missed his grip and hurtled forward, suddenly off his balance, Cesare's arms coiled themselves sideways about his waist. His hands locked and his grip tightened so that the smith could not turn in that embrace to face his antagonist.

Again Benvenuto saw that ripple and rise of muscle under the fair white skin of the Duke's back. Men held their breaths. Here was a well-seized grip. Could the Duke hold it—hold that gigantic mass of writhing muscle?

Hold it he did. He crouched a little, gathered his right leg under him, and thrust out his left hip. It was like the stretching of an archer's bow. And then it was as if the quarrel had been loosed, and the quarrel was the blacksmith. There had been a sudden heave; the protruded hip came straight again, and the blacksmith, swung an instant to the horizontal, crashed down upon his shoulder, and lay there, groaning. But his groans were lost in the deafening cheer that went up from the ring of spectators in the yard and others who had watched the contest from the windows of the quadrangle.

“Duca! Duca!” was the shout. Caps flew aloft; men clapped, and laughed, and bellowed at each other the niceties of the throw.

The Duke meanwhile had gone down upon one knee beside the prostrate wrestler, and was holding up his hand for silence. The man had been hurt. His shoulder was dislocated or his collar-bone broken from the force of the impact with which he fell.

Men-at-arms came forward to help him, half-stunned and suffering, to his feet.

“Let Torella see to his shoulder,” said the Duke, adding to the man himself. “You are the stoutest rogue I was ever matched against, and you made me tremble for my reputation.” He had his hand on the man's sound shoulder, very friendly as he spoke.

Hearing and seeing so much, Benvenuto's contempt for his Highness steadily increased. He caught the look of dog-like gratitude in the smith's eye, and sneered at both of them.

“You shall have twenty ducats to comfort you,” were the Duke's last words to the man. At least, thought Benvenuto, there was no doubt that he was free with his ducats; and that was the main thing now.

An attendant fetched the Duke a silken vest and a fur-lined surcoat, and he donned the garments with the quick grace peculiar to all his actions.

Benvenuto begged the page to announce him to his Highness, urging the importance of the matter upon which he came, which already had been too long delayed. The page obligingly departed on that errand. Benvenuto saw him hover a moment about the Duke, then make a profound obeisance and deliver his message.

Cesare was settling the surcoat upon his shoulders. He inclined his head to listen to the boy; then he looked up, and his eyes fell upon Benvenuto, standing there full now of arrogance and assurance. And that same arrogance went out of Benvenuto when Cesare's eyes fell upon him, as a candle goes out in a gust of wind.

What there might be in the glance of those matchless eyes he could not have attempted to tell you. But something sped upon it to his brain, and partly numbed it. It was as if his body were of glass, and those eyes were looking through it into the dirty little soul within.

Then, abruptly, the Duke beckoned him. He got down from his eminence, and went forward without swagger, his breathing quickened, his skin cold. Soldiers, courtiers and others fell away before him,opening a lane, through which he passed into the immediate presence of that auburn-haired young man.

“You have something to tell me,” said the Duke, his voice gentle enough, and yet the coldest that Benvenuto had ever known; his eyes so level and penetrating that Benvenuto could not support their glance.

“Something—something of great moment, Magnificent,” faltered the thief.

Cesare was silent an instant, still considering him; and in that instant the wretched Benvenuto felt that he had no secrets from the Duke; that all that there was to know of him was known to this man whose equal he had so lately accounted himself.

“Come with me, then,” said the Duke in his gentle voice—a voice rich in melody—and turned away.

Preceded by the page he crossed the courtyard, and mounted six steps to an oaken door studded with great iron nails, which a man-at-arms flung open for him at his approach. Benvenuto followed meekly, uncomfortable under the many eyes that conned him and detected—he was convinced—his true station and quality under his brave stolen raiment.

From the bright, clear sunshine of the courtyard he passed into a large and somewhat gloomy hall, cheered by the ruddy play of light on the floor and walls and ceiling from a great fire that burned in the vast cowled fireplace. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes; there were tapestries on two of the walls, and a staircase ascended to a gallery on the right. Near the fire stood a large arm-chair in red velvet with an escutcheon in gold which glowed and faded as the firelight caught it. By this was a massive table, elaborately carved, and yonder a buffet upon which stood goblets and a tall golden beaker. From this latter a faint steam was rising, and Benvenuto's nostrils caught and were set a-quiver by the sweet perfume of spiced wine.

Cesare flung himself into the chair by the fire. The page fetched the beaker and a goblet—a single goblet, Benvenuto noted—and poured wine for his master, thereafter setting the beaker on the table.

The Duke waved the stripling away into the background, and turned at last to Benvenuto, who stood there in mid-apartment, foolish and ill at ease.

“Now, sir,” said he, “your errand?”

The question fell abruptly. It was by no means the question Benvenuto had expected to begin with. But he must answer it.

“I am in possession, my lord,” he said, “of particulars of a plot which aims at your life.”

He had counted upon making a profound impression. But this was a day of surprises for him, of incredible revelations into the ways and habits of dukes. Not a muscle moved in Cesare's calm face; unblinking those haunting eyes continued to regard him. There fell a pause, terminated at last by the Duke, whose slender fingers impatiently tapped the table.

“Well, sir, well?” he cried sharply. “What else?”

“What else?” stammered Benvenuto. “Why—that is all.”

“All?” the Duke frowned. “But these particulars?”

“I—I have them here. They are contained in these letters, of which I became possessed to-day, and—and I have ridden at all speed to bring them to you.” He was fumbling in his doublet.

You have ridden? Whence?”

“Eh—from Forli.”

He produced the letters. He had, as you know, entertained bold thoughts of the price he would ask, the bargain he would drive before surrendering them. But all notion of that had gone from him with his courage. He had beheld an instance of the Duke's proverbial liberality in the case of the wrestler. He had no doubt the Duke would be no less liberal with him. He would depend upon that. He advanced timidly to the table, and set the letters before the Duke.

Cesare scanned them rapidly. Midway through the first his brows became knit. He gave a sharp order to the page.

“Beppo, summon me Messer Gherardi.”

The page went up the stairs, along the gallery, and through a doorway at the end. Cesare resumed his reading. Benvenuto waited, wondering.

At last the Duke set down the letters on the table. Benvenuto had expected outbursts, transports of rage, ferocious satisfaction, then protestations of gratitude to him—the Duke's saviour—and, lastly, a golden recompense. From the beginning nothing fell out as he expected. There was no outburst, no trace of anger even. The Duke's handsome lofty face remained as calm as though such matters were of daily occurrence in his life; his words, when he spoke, did not seem even remotely to bear upon the matter of this conspiracy.

“What is your name, sir?”

Under the play of those awful, beautiful eyes Benvenuto answered truthfully, feeling that he dared not lie—that to lie were idle:

“I am Benvenuto Gismondi, your Highness's servant.”

“Of Forli?”

“Of Forli, Magnificent.”

“And your trade?”

Benvenuto's uneasiness welled up. “I—I am a poor man, Highness. I—I live as I can.”

He saw Cesare's eyes pondering his garments—the gold chain on his breast, the jewel in the cap he held—with the faintest yet most sinister of smiles. Too late he perceived how he had blundered; too late he cursed himself for not having come with a tale prepared. But how should he have expected such questions? What manner of man was this who could turn aside from such a matter as Benvenuto had set before him, to make inquiries so alien to the subject.

“I see,” said Cesare, and the tone was such that it turned the scoundrel's soul to water, froze the marrow in his spine, filling him as it did with horrid premonitions. “I see. And this Messer Crespi of Faenza, to whom these letters were addressed—he is dead?” It was but the slightly rising inflection of the voice that made a question of that statement.

Livid, shaking now in every limb, and will-less before this man who seemed to draw the very soul out of him, Benvenuto answered: “He is dead, Magnificent.”

“Ah! You were well advised in that,” the Duke agreed. He smiled, and his smile was the deadliest Gismondi had ever seen. “He was, I take it,” the Duke pursued, “a man of much your own height and build.”

“It is so, Magnificent.”

“That, too, is fortunate, as it is fortunate you should have had the happy thought to array yourself in his apparel. No doubt the condition of your own would be a sufficient justification.”

“My lord, my lord!” cried the abject scoundrel, and would have flung himself upon his knees to implore mercy but that Cesare's next words stayed him.

“Why—what now? It is all most fortunate, I say. I would not have it other.”

Benvenuto stared into that smiling face, sorely mistrustful. He detected something sinister in that fair speech.

Steps sounded on the gallery. Down the stairs came the page, returning, followed by a well-nourished gentleman in black, whose face was round and white, whose nose was sharp, and whose crafty eyes took, in passing, the measure of Messer Benvenuto.

“Ah, Agabito!” the Duke hailed him, and held out the letters. “These pretend to be from Hermes Bentivogli. Do you recognise the hand?”

The secretary took the papers, and crossed to the window to examine them in the light. Suddenly he cried out:

“What is this, my lord?”

“Did I bid you read, Agabito?” quoth the Duke, with the faintest show of impatience. “Is the hand that of Hermes Bentivogli?”

“Assuredly,” answered Agabito readily. He was well acquainted with the writing of the Bolognese.

The Duke sighed, and rose. “Then the thing is true, and he is here in Cesena. He has vowed to kill me, more than once. At last, it seems, he has the courage to take the thing in hand.”

“He must be seized, my lord.”

Cesare stood with bowed head, lost in thought. Benvenuto, seemingly forgotten for the moment, watched furtively, and waited.

“There may be a score of others in the plot,” said Cesare slowly.

“But he is the brain—the brain,” cried Agabito, slapping the papers in his excitement.

“God help the body that is ruled by such a brain,” sneered the Duke. “Ay, he should be crushed. He should be made to feel the full weight, the full terror of my justice.”

Benvenuto shuddered to the very soul of him at the words and the tone.

“But——” The Duke shrugged wearily, and turned to face the fire. “He is of Bologna, and behind Bologna there is France, and if I strangle this cut-throat, God alone knows what complications may confront me.”

“But with such evidence as this—” began Agabito.

“It is no matter of right or wrong,” Cesare snapped at him. “Before I move——” He stopped short, and turned again. His glance, hard and bright, fastened once more upon Benvenuto, whilst he extended his hand to Gherardi for the papers. The secretary promptly resigned them.

“Here,” said the Duke, and he now held out the letters to Benvenuto. “Take you these papers, of which in the way of your scoundrel's trade you have become possessed. Learn their contents by heart. Then go at midnight—as the letter directs—to the Palazzo Magli. Play the part of Messer Crespi, and bring me word to-morrow of what these conspirators intend and who their associates elsewhere.”

Gismondi fell back a pace, his eyes dilating. “My lord,” he cried. “My lord, I dare not.”

“Oh, as you please,” said the Duke most sweetly. “But there are enough cut-throats in Italy—too many vermin of your kind—that we should hesitate to dispose of one. Beppo, call the guard.”

“My lord,” cried Benvenuto again, starting forward, shaken by fresh terror; and the sudden hoarseness of his voice surprised him. “A moment, Magnificent—of your pity! If I do this thing …?” he began; then stopped, appalled by the very contemplation of it.

“If you do this thing,” said Cesare, answering the uncompleted question, “we will not inquire into the death of Messer Crespi. Our forgetfulness shall be your wage. I confess,” he continued, his tone most amiable, “that I shall do this reluctantly, for I have vowed to exterminate your kind. Nevertheless, out of consideration for the service you are to render, I will hold my hand this time. Fail me, or refuse the task, and there is the rope—first to extract confession from you on the hoist, and afterwards to hang you. The choice is yours.”

Gismondi stared and stared into that beautiful young face, so mockingly impassive. His terror gave way to a dull rage, and but for the exhibition of strength he had so lately witnessed in the courtyard, he might not have curbed his impulse to attempt to anticipate upon the Duke the work of Messer Crespi's friends. He cursed his folly in setting his trust in the gratitude of princes; he mocked his own credulity in thinking that his tale would be received with joy and purchased at more gold than he could carry.

In the end he staggered out of the chamber, and out of the citadel, pledged to betake himself at midnight to the Magli Palace, at the imminent risk of his sweet life, assured that he would be watched by Cesare Borgia's spies and that, did he fail to perform the task he had undertaken, the risk to his life would be more imminent still.

••••••

Back to the Half-Moon he went, to closet himself in that inner chamber of the inn. He called for candles—for dusk had meanwhile fallen—and set himself to con the papers that should have been his fortune but were become his ruin. To the charms of Giannozza he was for once as unresponsive as to the sneer of her cross-eyed father which had greeted his return and his crestfallen air.

Giannozza being a woman and inquisitive was intrigued by this change in his demeanour, this gloomy abstraction; but powerless to elicit explanation. The seductions with which she sought to loose his tongue all left him cold. At length she fetched him a jug of spiced wine, deeming it the likeliest philtre to charm his soul to confidences. But still he disappointed her. He viewed the jug with apathy; the accustomed gleam was absent from his eyes, and she listened in vain for the usual resounding anticipatory smack of his great coarse lips. Listlessly he took up the vessel. He moved it slowly in his hand, causing the steaming wine to swirl, and made lachrymose philosophy.

“Man,” said he, “is no better than a fluid in the jug of circumstance. It is Circumstance that moulds and shapes him at her will, as this wine is moulded in this jug; and his end is much as this.” And he emptied the jug sorrowfully.

“Touching this service of the Duke's …?” began Giannozza.

He waved her away. “Go. Leave me. I need to be alone a while.”

She called him by offensive names, which he scarce heeded, and left him.

Spiritless and dejected sat he there, staring at the fire, which was burning low by now. Thoughts of escape returned to him, to be dismissed again. He was doomed if he essayed it. There were two strangers even now in the common room, drinking and making friends with Giannozza's unutterable father. That they were emissaries of Cesare Borgia, detailed to watch him, and to seize him should he attempt to leave the town, he had no single doubt. His only chance was the narrow one the Duke had set him—through the gathering of the conspirators that night.

So he returned to the letters, and set himself to learn by heart their contents—as the Duke had urged him—that he might carry through this dread affair and play that night his fearful rôle.

Thus it befell that midnight found him at the wicket in the great doors of the Magli Palace. Crespi's purple cloak hung loosely from his shoulders in such a manner as to mask his figure; Crespi's black silk vizor was upon his face, for the letters told him—and in that lay his one chance—that the conspirators were to come masked and remain unknown one to another.

The Palazzo Magli, be it known, was at this time untenanted, wherefore it had been chosen for this secret meeting.

Gismondi found the wicket yield to his pressure. He pushed it wide and stepped over the sill formed by the actual door, into a blackness as of the very pit. Instantly the wicket closed behind him, and he stood in a darkness so thick that it seemed a tiling material and palpable. All was still; no faintest sound disturbed the stillness.

“A cold night,” he said aloud, this being the appointed watchword.

Instantly a hand gripped his arm, and Gismondi was troubled by a thrill of fear. Nevertheless he spoke again as was appointed.

“And it will be colder anon.”

“Colder for whom?” quoth a voice.

“For one who is warm enough to-night.”

His arm was released, and instantly the gloom was dispelled. A cloak was lifted from a lanthorn standing on the ground, and from this a circle of light gleamed feebly along the tiled floor, rose faintly thence to a man's height, but pierced no farther into the upper darkness.

A black figure, indistinct in the misty light, his face masked, signed to Benvenuto to follow; took up the lanthorn, and crossed the hall, his footsteps sounding eerily in that empty place. Another similar figure remained—Benvenuto observed—standing immovable by the wicket, ready to admit the next comer.

Across the hall, Benvenuto's guide opened a door, and conducted him into a spacious courtyard within the quadrangular precincts of the palace. A thick soft carpet of snow lay on the ground, and from the lanthorn swinging in the hand of his guide a yellow wheel of light fell on the whiteness, and Benvenuto observed the tracks of many steps that had preceded him that way. They reached another door, passed through another hall, chill and gloomy as a vault, and so on to yet a third door in which a wicket opened to give them passage into a garden.

Here the guide paused. “Follow those tracks,” he said, “to the garden's end. There you will find a ladder against the wall. Surmount it and follow the tracks in the next garden. They will lead you to a door, which will be opened to your knock.” He turned abruptly; stepped back into the hall, and slammed the wicket, leaving Benvenuto alone and very frightened.

For a moment he paused with fresh and very wild ideas of flight thrusting themselves upon his notice. But he cast them aside. Already he had gone too far for retreat. If only it were daylight! But this gloom; faintly relieved out here by the ghostly luminousness of the all-covering snow, was sharpening his nerves. He looked up at the black sky all flecked with stars that twinkled frostily, then at the track, faintly discernible. He went forward until he found the ladder and the wall. He went over and into another garden; found the track there, and pursued it to the house.

He readily perceived the object of so much travelling. The meeting was not at the Palazzo Magli at all. It had been so announced as a safeguard. By this journey across two gardens, the plotters were introduced into another palace some distance away. Should danger threaten the Palazzo Magli, should it be beset or invaded, the enemy would find an empty nest, and the men who had been left on guard there would know how to convey a warning to the real meeting-place, whence the conspirators might disperse unchallenged.

Benvenuto went up some steps to a stout door and knocked. It was opened instantly, and as instantly closed when he had passed in. He stood once more in Stygian darkness, his pulses beating wildly. Out of the gloom came an unexpected question—a question for which the letters had not specifically prepared him.

“Whence are you?”

An instant did he hesitate, mastering his sudden terror, and answered as Crespi must have answered: “From Faenza.”

“Enter,” the voice bade him. And now a door was suddenly flung wide, and a flood of light issuing from it smote and almost blinded him, after the long spell of darkness that had been his.

Peering and blinking he went forward with a bold step and a quaking heart, thanking his patron saint and Our Lady of Loreto for the mask that covered the livid fear writ large upon his countenance.

He entered a spacious chamber, lighted by a dozen great candle-branches suspended from ceiling and from panelled walls. Down the middle of this room ran a long quadrangular table, at which sat seven other plotters masked and muffled as was he—and all in silence, like so many beccamorti.

The door closed softly behind him, and the sound chilled him, suggesting to his fevered mind the closing of a trap. He heartened himself with the reflection that he had learned his lesson well; he persuaded himself that he had nothing to fear; and he went forward to find himself a chair at the table. He sat down and waited, glad enough that the secrecy of the proceedings precluded intercommunion. And presently others came; as he had come, and like himself each sat aloof from his fellow-plotters.

At last the door opened again to admit one who differed from the rest in that he wore no mask. He was a tall man with a big-nosed, shaven face, swarthy and bold-eyed. He was a man in the full vigour of youth, and he was dressed from head to foot in black. A long sword swung from his girdle, and a heavy dagger rested on his right hip. This, Benvenuto guessed, must be Bentivogli.

He was followed by two masked figures in black—who had the air of being in attendance—and upon his entrance the entire company—now numbering a round dozen—rose to its feet.

Gismondi knew enough of this affair, into which an odd irony had thrust him, to understand why this man; who was the head and leader of the congiura, should come unmasked; for, whilst the identity of the plotters was kept secret one from another, their leader was known, at least by name, to each and all, as were all known, by name at least, to him.

Bentivogli stepped to the head of the long table. One of his attendants set a chair for him; but he did not sit. He stood there, his heavy under lip thrust forward, his great brow puckered in a frown, his dark eyes playing over the assembled company. At length he spoke.

“We are all assembled, my friends,” said he, “and to me it is strange that this should be so.” A chill went through Benvenuto, like a sword-thrust in the vitals. But he gave no sign. He stood immovable among the others.

“Be seated, all,” Bentivogli bade them, and all sat; but he, their leader, remained standing.

“I have reason to believe,” he said, in a cold, hard voice, “that here amongst us sits a spy.”

There was a rustle as of wind through trees as the muffled company stirred at that fell announcement. Men turned to scan one another with eyes that flashed fiercely through the eyeholes of their vizors, as though their glances would have burned a way through the silk that screened their neighbours' countenances. It seemed to Gismondi in that moment of choking panic that the entire company was staring at him; then he knew this for a trick of his imaginings; and, betide what might, he set himself to do as others did, and to glare fiercely in his turn at this and that one. Some three or four were upon their feet.

“His name!” they cried. “His name, Magnificent!”

But the Magnificent shook his head and motioned them to resume their seats. “I know it not,” said he, “nor in whose place he is here.” Whereat Gismondi breathed more freely. “All that I know is this. As I rode hither to-day, we came, some two miles from Cesena, upon the body of a man, who had been murdered, robbed and stripped almost naked. The body was scarce cold when we discovered it, and in the distance, towards Cesena, rode one who may well have been the murderer. Now it chanced that by the body we found a sheet of paper, which I have here. It bears, as you see, the half of a green seal—a seal bearing the imprint of arms not to be identified with those of any house in Italy to-day, yet arms familiar to all of you who have received communications from me in the matter upon which we are assembled here to-night.”

Bentivogli paused a moment, then continued: “Undoubtedly that paper was a wrapper that had enclosed communications from me concerned with our present business. Whether such a letter had been addressed to the dead man I do not know, nor do I know who he was nor whence he came. But someone here should be able to throw light upon this matter—unless the dead man was indeed one of us, and his murderer has replaced him at this meeting. Can any of you give me the explanation which I seek?”

He sat down and waited, looking from one to another. But no answer came from any.

Gismondi felt his breath failing him. If he had wished to speak at that moment—if he had prepared a likely tale to meet the emergency, he could not have given utterance to it then.

A slow, cruel smile overspread Bentivogli's heavy features as the deathly silence was maintained.

“So,” he said at length. “It is as I supposed.” Then in an altered and brisker tone: “Had I known where each of you was lodged, I had found means to warn you against coming here to-night As it is, I can only hope that we are not yet betrayed. But this I know: that the man who became possessed of the secret of our plot sits here amongst us now—no doubt that he may learn its scope more fully before he goes to sell his story to him you know of.”

Again there was that rustling stir, and several voices were raised, harsh and hot with threats of what should be the fate of this rash spy. Gismondi gnawed his lip in silence, waiting and wondering, the strength all oozing from him.

“Twelve of us were to have foregathered here to-night,” said Bentivogli impressively. “One of us, it seems, lies dead; yet twelve axe here. You see, my friends,” he added, a sardonic note vibrating in his voice, “that there is one too many. That one,” he concluded, and from sardonic his voice turned grim, “that one we must weed out.”

He rose as he spoke, a splendid figure, tall and stately.

“I will ask you, one by one, to confer with me apart a moment,” he announced. “Each of you will come when summoned. I shall call you, not by name but by the city from which you come.”

He turned from the table, and moved down into the shadows under a gallery at the far end of the long room, and with him went the two who had attended him on his arrival.

Gismondi watched them, fascinated. The two attendants, he supposed, would do the uprooting when the weed was discovered; for that reason did they accompany Bentivogli, and for that purpose did they withdraw into the shadow, as more fitting than the light for the deed of darkness that would presently be done. An icy sweat broke on his skin.

“Ancona!” called Bentivogli in a loud voice, and the name boomed mournfully on the chill air.

A masker rose upon the instant, thrusting back his chair, and marched resolutely down the room to confer with the master-plotter.

Gismondi wondered how many moments of life might yet remain him. There was a mist before his eyes, and his heart thudded horridly at the base of his throat with a violence that seemed to shake him in his chair at each pulsation, and he marvelled that the boom of it did not draw the attention of his neighbours.

“Arezzo!” came the voice, and another figure rose and went apart, passing the returning “Ancona” on the way.

Bagnolo followed Arezzo, and Gismondi began to realise that the president was taking them alphabetically. He wondered how many more there might be before Faenza—the call to which he must respond, since Crespi was of Faenza, as he knew. He wondered too what questions would be asked him. From the knowledge he had gathered from the letters he found himself able to surmise them, and he knew what answers he should make. His terror abated, but it did not leave him; some other questions there might be—something for which those papers did not make provision; there must be.

“Cattolica!” came the summons, and a fourth conspirator rose.

And then, of a sudden, the whole company was on its feet, and Gismondi had risen too, mechanically, from very force of imitation, and the heart-beats in his throat were quickened now with sudden hope. In the distance there had been a sound of voices, and this was followed on the instant by a heavy tread in the corridor without—a tread accompanied by the clank of armour.

“We are betrayed!” cried a voice—after which, in awful silence, the masked company stood and waited.

A heavy blow smote the door and it fell open. Across the threshold, the candlelight reflected from his corselet as from a mirror, came a mighty figure armed cap-à-pie; behind him three men-at-arms, sword on thigh and pike in hand, pressed closely.

Three paces within the room the great armoured figure halted, and surveyed the company with eyes that smiled grimly from a bearded face.

“Sirs,” he warned them, “resistance will be idle. I have fifty men at hand.”

Bentivogli advanced with a firm step. “What is your will with us?” he challenged, a fine arrogance in his voice.

“The will of his Highness, the Duke of Valentinois,” was the man's answer, “to whom your plot is known in its every detail.”

“You are come to arrest us?”

“One by one,” said the captain, with an odd significance and a slight inclination of the head. “My grooms await you in the courtyard.”

For an instant there was silence, as well there might be at that pronouncement, and Gismondi understood—as all understood—that here, in the courtyard of this palace, those gentlemen caught red-handed were to expiate their treason at the strangler's hands.

“Infamy!” cried one, who stood beside Gismondi. “Are we, then, to have no trial?”

“In the courtyard,” replied the captain grimly.

“Not I, for one!” exclaimed another, and his voice was fresh and youthful. “I am of patrician blood, and I'll not be strangled in a corner like a capon. If die I must, I claim by right of birth the axe.”

“By right of birth?” the captain mused, and smiled. “In truth your very birthright, so it seems. Come, sirs …”

But others stormed, and one there was who called upon his fellows to draw what steel they carried, and die with weapons in their hands, like men.

Gismondi, apart, with folded arms, watched them, and grinned behind his vizor. It was with him the hour of exultation, of revulsion from his recent terrors, He wondered to what lengths of folly these rash men would go. He thought he might witness a pretty fight; but Bentivogli disappointed him of such expectations. He came forward to the table-head, and his voice was raised to dominate and quell the others.

“Sirs,” said he, “the game is played and lost. Let us pay forfeit and have done.”

What choice had they? What chance—all without body armour and few with better weapons than a dagger—against fifty men-at-arms in steel?

Again for a moment there was silence. Then one of the masked company, with a sudden, strident, reckless laugh, stepped forward.

“I'll lead the way, O my brothers,” he said, and bowed to the captain. “I am at your orders, sir.”

The captain made a sign to his men. Two of them laid aside their pikes and came forward to seize that volunteer. Swiftly, and without word spoken, they hurried him from the chamber.

Gismondi smiled. This entertainment amused his cruel nature more than had done that other of a little while ago.

Again and again the men-at-arms returned; and victim after victim was hurried out to the waiting grooms in the courtyard. One set up a resistance as wild as it was futile; another screamed when he was seized. But in the main they bore themselves with a calm dignity. The soldiers went swiftly about their work, and after a brief ten minutes there remained but four of the conspirators. One of these was Bentivogli, who as the leader reserved himself the honour of going last; two others were the men who had been attendant upon him; the fourth was Messer Benvenuto, who watched and waited, chuckling to think how the name of Cesare Borgia would stink in Italy for this night's work.

The men-at-arms had re-entered and stood waiting for the next victim. Bentivogli made a sign to Gismondi that was plain of meaning. Gismondi shrugged, smiled to himself under cover of his mask, and stepped forward with a swagger. But when the soldiers seized him, he shook them impatiently aside.

“A word with you, sir,” said he to the captain, mighty haughty.

The captain flashed him a keen glance. “Ah!” said he. “You will be he whom I was told to look for. Tell me your name that I may know you.”

“I am Benvenuto Gismondi.”

The captain nodded thoughtfully. “I must permit myself no error here. You are Benvenuto Gismondi, and——” He paused inquiringly.

“And,” Gismondi completed impatiently, “I am here on behalf of the Duke Cesare Borgia.”

A quiet, wicked laugh broke from the captain's bearded lips. One of his heavy gauntleted hands fell upon Gismondi's shoulder; the other tore the vizor roughly from his face. Startled, understanding nothing, he was swung round so that he faced Bentivogli.

“Does your Excellency know the villain?” asked the captain.

“I do not,” answered Bentivogli, and added: “God be thanked!”

He clapped his hands vigorously; and now it was that Benvenuto realised into what manner of trap he was fallen, and what manner of ruse the master-plotter had adopted to weed out, as he had promised, the one who usurped the place of him that had been slain upon the Æmilian Way. That clapping of hands was a summons, in answer to which there came trooping back into the chamber the entire company of muffled plotters. No farther than the corridor had they been taken; and on arrival there to each one who had sustained with honour this ordeal had been explained the test that was afoot.

••••••

Betimes next morning Ramiro de Lorqua, Cesare's Governor of Cesena, waited upon his master with a dagger and a blood-smeared scrap of paper.

He had to report that the body of a man had been discovered at daybreak on the far bank of the castle moat, by the drawbridge. The dagger that had slain the fellow had been employed to attach to him the label which Ramiro presented to the Duke. On this was scrawled: “The property of Cesare Borgia.”

Accompanied by his governor, Cesare descended to the courtyard to view the body. It lay there, covered by the purple, fur-trimmed cloak which Benvenuto had worn yesterday. Ramiro turned this down to disclose the ashen face. The Duke looked, and nodded.

“It is as I thought,” said he. “It is very well.”

“Your Highness knows him?”

“A poor rogue whom I employed on a desperate venture.”

Ramiro—a thick-set, black-visaged, choleric man—swore roundly, as he did upon the slightest provocation. He would see to it that the culprits were tracked and found. Cesare shook liis head, and smiled.

“You will search in vain, Ramiro,” he said. “Yet I can name to you the leader of the party that is answerable for this murder; I can tell you even that he rode out of Cesena at daybreak to-day, and what road he took. But to what end? He is a fool who has performed my justice for me, and knows it not. I fear him no more than I fear this poor carrion.”

“My lord, I do not understand!” said Ramiro.

“Is it necessary that you should?” smiled the Duke. “My will has been done. Understand so much, and bury me this dead—and with him the entire affair.”

He turned away, to come face to face with Agabito Gherardi, who was approaching hurriedly.

“Ah, you have heard the news,” Cesare greeted him. “Now behold the face,” and he pointed to the dead.

Agabito looked, and shrugged. “You would have it so,” he said. “But you could have taken them all.”

“And had all Italy calling me butcher for my pains—Venice, the envious, Milan, the spiteful, Florence, the evil-tongue—all of them lifting their horrid voices to the dear task of defamation. And to what end?” He linked an arm through Agabito's, and drew the secretary away. “That was an effective scarecrow I set up amongst them last night.” He smiled grimly. “They could not dream that the whole thing was chance—that Benvenuto Gismondi was but a thief who had murdered this Messer Crespi for the sake of plunder. They conceive Crespi to have been killed, stripped and replaced in their council, all by my design. They conclude that I have as many eyes as Argus, and the conspiracy is as frost-bitten as your nose, Agabito. They are paralysed with fear of me and the ubiquity of my spies. No man of those plotters counts himself safe, and they have scattered to their several homes, all plans abandoned since they fear the worst.

“Could I improve upon the matter by hunting them down? I think not, Agabito. Benvenuto Gismondi has served my purpose as fully as I intended, and, incidentally, he has had justice and a fitting wage.