Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Bookntemptuously, "and of how you belie that name of yours, for they tell me that a more drunken, cowardly, good-for-nothing rogue is not to be found in Italy--no, not even in the Pope's dominions. And have a care how you cast the word 'punishment' at your betters, animal. The moat is none so distant, and the immersion may profit you. For I'll swear you've not been washed since they baptized you--if, indeed, you be a son of Mother Church at all." "Sangue di Cristo!" spluttered the enraged bully, his face mottled. "This to me? Come down from that horse." He laid hold of Francesco's leg to drag him to the ground, but the Count wrenched it free by a quick motion that left a gash from his spur upon the captain's hands. Simultaneously he raised his whip, and would have laid the lash of it across the broad of Fortemani's back--for it had angered him beyond words to have a ruffian of this fellow's quality seeking to ruffle it with him--but at that moment a female voice, stern and imperative, bade them hold in their quarrel. Fortemani fell back nursing his lacerated hand and muttering curses, whilst Francesco turned in the direction whence that voice had come. Midway on the flight of stone steps he beheld Valentina, followed by Gonzaga, Peppe, and a couple of men-at-arms, descending from the battlements. Calm and queenly she stood, dressed in a camorra of grey velvet with black sleeves, which excellently set off her handsome height. Gonzaga was leaning forward, speaking into her ear, and for all that his voice was subdued, some of his words travelled down to Francesco on the still, morning air. "Was I not wise, Madonna, in that I hesitated to admit him? You see what manner of man he is." The blood flamed in Francesco's cheeks, nor did it soften his chagrin to note the look which Valentina flashed down at him. Instantly he leapt to the ground, and flinging his reins to Lanciotto he went forward to the foot of that stone staircase, his broad hat slung back upon his shoulders, to meet that descending company. "Is this seemly, sir?" she questioned angrily. "Does it become you to brawl with my garrison the moment you are admitted?" The blood rose higher in Francesco's face, and now suffused his temples and reached his hair. Yet his voice was well restrained as he made answer: "Madonna, this knave was insolent." "An insolence that you no doubt provoked," put in Gonzaga, a dimple showing on his woman's cheek. But the sterner rebuke fell from the lips of Valentina. "Knave?" she questioned, with flushed countenance. "If you would not have me regret your admittance, Messer Francesco, I pray you curb your words. Here are no knaves. That, sir, is the captain of my soldiers." Francesco bowed submissively, as patient under her reproof as he had been hasty under Fortemani's. "It was on the matter of this captaincy that we fell to words," he answered, with more humility. "By his own announcement I understood this nobleman"--and his eyes turned to Gonzaga--"to be your captain." "He is the captain of my castle," she informed him. "As you see, Ser Francesco," put in Peppe, who had perched himself upon the balustrade, "we suffer from no lack of captains here. We have also Fra Domenico, who is captain of our souls and of the kitchen; myself am captain of----" "Devil take you, fool," snapped Gonzaga, thrusting him roughly from his perch. Then turning abruptly to the Count: "You bear a message for us, sir?" he questioned loftily. Swallowing the cavalier tone, and overlooking the pronoun Gonzaga employed, Francesco inclined his head again to the lady. "I should prefer to deliver it in more privacy than this." And his eye travelled round the court and up the steps behind, where was now collected the entire company of Fortemani. Gonzaga sneered and tossed his golden curls, but Valentina saw naught unreasonable in the request, and bidding Romeo attend her and Francesco follow, she led the way. They crossed the quadrangle, and, mounting the steps down which Fortemani had dashed to meet the Count, they passed into the banqueting-hall, which opened directly upon the south side of the courtyard. The Count, following in her wake, ran the gauntlet of scowls of the assembled mercenaries. He stalked past them unmoved, taking their measure as he went, and estimating their true value with the unerring eye of the practised condottiero who has had to do with the enrolling of men and the handling of them. So little did he like their looks that on the threshold of the hall he paused and stayed Gonzaga. "I am loath to leave my servant at the mercy of those ruffians, sir. May I beg that you will warn them against offering him violence?" "Ruffians?" cried the lady angrily, before Gonzaga could offer a reply. "They are my soldiers." Again he bowed, and there was a cold politeness in the tones in which he answered her: "I crave your pardon, and I will say no more--unless it be to deplore that I may not felicitate you on your choice." It was Gonzaga's turn to wax angry, for the choice had been his. "Your message will have need to be a weighty one, sir, to earn our patience for your impertinence." Francesco returned the look of those blue eyes which vainly sought to flash ferociously, and he made little attempt to keep his scorn from showing in his glance. He permitted himself even to shrug his shoulders a trifle impatiently. "Indeed, indeed, I think that I had best begone," he answered regretfully, "for it is a place whose inmates seem all bent on quarrelling with me. First your captain Fortemani greets me with an insolence hard to leave unpunished. You, yourself, Madonna, resent that I should crave protection for my man against those fellows whose looks give rise for my solicitation. You are angry that I should dub them ruffians, as if I had followed the calling of arms these ten years without acquiring knowledge of the quality of a man however much you may disguise him. And lastly, to crown all, this cicisbeo"--and he spread a hand contemptuously towards Gonzaga--"speaks of my impertinences." "Madonna," cried Gonzaga, "I beg that you will let me deal with him." Unwittingly, unwillingly, Gonzaga saved the situation by that prayer. The anger that was fast rising in Madonna's heart, stirred by the proud bearing of the Count, was scattered before the unconscious humour of her captain's appeal, in such ludicrous contrast was his mincing speech and slender figure with Francesco's firm tones and lean, active height. She did not laugh, for that would have been to have spoilt all, but she looked from one to the other with quiet relish, noting the glance of surprise and raised eyebrows with which the Count received the courtier's request to be let deal with him. And thus, being turned from anger, the balance of her mind was quick to adjust itself, and she bethought her that perhaps there was reason in what this knight advanced, and that his reception had lacked the courtesy that was his due. In a moment, |