Francesco sat quietly drumming on the sill, his eyes upon the
moonlit garden below, and never by word or sign suggesting that he might
succeed where Romeo had failed. At last she turned to him.
"Could you----?" she began, and stopped, her eyes wandering back to
Gonzaga, loath to further wound a pride that was very sore already. On
the instant Francesco rose.
"I might try, Madonna," he said quietly, "although Messer Gonzaga's
failure gives me little hope. And yet, it may be that he has taken the
keen edge from their assurance, and that, thus, an easier task awaits me.
I will try, Madonna." And with that he went.
"He will succeed, Gonzaga," she said, after he had gone. "He is a man of
war, and knows the words to which these fellows have no answer."
"I wish him well of his errand," sneered Gonzaga, his pretty face white
now with sullenness. "And I'll wager you he fails."
But Valentina disdained the offer whose rashness was more than proven
when, at the end of some ten minutes, Francesco re-entered, as
imperturbable as when he went.
"They are quiet now, Madonna," he announced.
She looked at him questioningly. "How did you accomplish it?" she
inquired.
"I had a little difficulty," he said, "yet not over-much." His eye roved
to Gonzaga, and he smiled. "Messer Gonzaga is too gentle with them. Too
true a courtier to avail himself of the brutality that is necessary when
we deal with brutes. You should not disdain to use your hands upon
them," he admonished the fop in all seriousness, and without a trace of
irony.
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