You ask me what
purpose inspires me. I have already told you--for I am as open as the
daylight with you--that I am inspired by the purpose of saving my own
neck. Is not that purpose enough?"
A laugh of such understanding as would have set a better man on fire with
indignation was the answer he received.
"Why, yes, it is more than enough. To-morrow, then, my comrades and I
march out of Roccaleone. Count upon that."
"But do not accept my word. Wait until the herald comes again. Do
nothing until you have heard the terms he brings."
"Why, no, assuredly not."
"And do not let it transpire among your fellows that it is I who have
suggested this."
"Why no. I'll keep your secret," laughed the bravo offensively,
shouldering his partisan and resuming his sentinel's pacing.
Gonzaga sought his bed. A fierce joy consumed him at having so
consummately planned Valentina's ruin, yet he did not wish to face her
again that night.
But when on the morrow the herald wound his horn again beneath the castle
walls, Gonzaga was prominent in the little group that attended Monna
Valentina. The Count of Aquila was superintending the work to which he
had set a half-score of men. With a great show, and as much noise as
possible--by which Francesco intended that the herald should be
impressed--they were rolling forward four small culverins and some three
cannons of larger calibre, and planting them so that they made a menacing
show in the crenels of the parapet.
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