And whilst
they waited for his answer, a mighty battle was fought out within his
soul. The power so suddenly, so unexpectedly, thrust within his reach,
and offered him if he would but open his hands to grasp it, dazzled him
for one little moment. As in a flash he saw himself Lord of Babbiano.
He beheld a proud career of knightly deeds that should cause his name and
that of Babbiano to ring throughout the length and breadth of Italy.
From the obscure state that it was, his patriotism and his skill as a
condottiero should render it one of the great Italian powers--the rival
of Florence, of Venice or Milan. He had a vision of widened territories,
and of neighbouring lords becoming vassals to his might. He saw himself
wresting Romagna mile by mile from the sway of the ribald Borgia, hunting
him to the death as he was wont to hunt the boar in the marshes of
Commachio, or driving him into the very Vatican to seek shelter within
his father's gates--the last strip of soil that he would leave him to
lord it over. He dreamt of a Babbiano courted by the great republics,
and the honour of its alliance craved by them that they might withstand
the onslaughts of French and Spaniard. All this he saw in that fleeting
vision of his, and Temptation caught his martial spirit in a grip of
steel. And then another picture rose before his eyes. What would he do
in times of peace? His was a soul that pined in palaces. He was born to
the camp, and not to the vapid air of courts.
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