But this is not my trade--this waiting
for the death of a trapped rat."
Francesco met his eyes steadily for a moment, then glanced at the other
men, to the number of a half-score or so--all, in fact, whom the duties
he had apportioned them did not hold elsewhere. They hung in the rear of
Cappoccio, all ears for what was being said, and their countenances
plainly showing how their feelings were in sympathy with their spokesman.
"And you a soldier, Cappoccio?" sneered Francesco. "Shall I tell you in
what Fortemani was wrong when he enlisted you? He was wrong in not
hiring you for scullion duty in the castle kitchen."
"Sir Knight!"
"Bah! Do you raise your voice to me? Do you think I am of your kind,
animal, to be affrighted by sounds--however hideous?"
"I am not affrighted by sounds."
"Are you not? Why, then, all this ado about a bunch of empty threats
cast at us by the Duke of Babbiano? If you were indeed the soldier you
would have us think you, would you come here and say, 'I will not die
this way, or that'? Confess yourself a boaster when you tell us that you
are ready to die in the open."
"Nay! That am I not."
"Then, if you are ready to die out there, why not in here? Shall it
signify aught to him that dies where he gets his dying done? But
reassure yourself, you woman," he added, with a laugh, and in a voice
loud enough to be heard by the others, "you are not going to die--neither
here, nor there."
"When Roccaleone capitulates----"
"It will not capitulate," thundered Francesco.
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