Valentina, uncomprehending, looked from one
to the other.
"Sirs, sirs, what have you said?" she cried. "Why all this war of
looks?"
"He is over-quick to take offence, Madonna, for an honest man," was
Gonzaga's answer. "Like the snake in the grass, he is very ready with
his sting when we seek to disclose him."
"For shame, Gonzaga," she cried, now rising too. "What are you saying?
Are you turned witless? Come, sirs, since you are both my friends, be
friends each with the other."
"Most perfect syllogism!" murmured the fool, unheeded.
"And you, Messer Francesco, forget his words. He means them not. He is
very hot of fancy, but sweet at heart, this good Gonzaga."
On the instant the cloud lifted from Francesco's brow.
"Why, since you ask me," he answered, inclining his head, "if he'll but
say he meant no malice by his words, I will confess as much for mine."
Gonzaga, cooling, saw that haply he had gone too fast, and was the
readier to make amends. Yet in his bosom he nursed an added store of
poison, a breath of which escaped him as he was leaving Valentina, and
after Francesco had already gone:
"Madonna," he muttered, "I mistrust that man."
"Mistrust him? Why?" she asked, frowning despite her faith in the
magnificent Romeo.
"I know not why; but it is here. I feel it." And with his hand he
touched the region of his heart. "Say that he is no spy, and call me a
fool."
"Why, I'll do both," she laughed. Then more sternly, added: "Get you to
bed, Gonzaga.
Pages:
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211