It was a thing that went afterwards to the making of an
epic that was sung from Calabria to Piedmont, how this brave knight, by
his words, by the power of his will and the might of his presence, curbed
and subdued that turbulent score of rebellious hinds.
And from the wall above Valentina watched him, her eyes sparkling with
tears that had not their source in sorrow nor yet in fear, for she knew
that he must prevail. How could it be else with one so dauntless?
Thus thought she now. But in the moment of his going, fear had chilled
her to the heart, and when she first saw him take his stand before them,
she had turned half-distraught, and begged Gonzaga not to linger at her
side, but to go lend what aid he could to that brave knight who stood so
sorely in need of it. And Gonzaga had smiled a smile as pale as January
sunshine, and his soft blue eyes had hardened in their glance. Not
weakness now was it that held him there, well out of the dangerous
turmoil. For he felt that had he possessed the strength of Hercules, and
the courage of Achilles, he would not in that instant have moved a step
to Francesco's aid. And as much he told her.
"Why should I, Madonna?" he had returned coldly. "Why should I raise a
hand to help the man whom you prefer to me? Why should I draw sword in
the cause of this fortress?"
She looked at him with troubled eyes. "What are you saying, my good
Gonzaga?"
"Aye--your good Gonzaga!" he mocked her bitterly. "Your lap-dog, your
lute-thrummer; but not man enough to be your captain; not man enough to
earn a thought that is kinder than any earned by Peppe or your hounds.
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