"Treachery?"
"It is what I thought."
Gonzaga took the man by the sleeve of his doublet, and drew him back to
the parapet. They peered over, and from out of the blackness they were
hailed by a faint "Ol?!"
"Who goes there?" demanded Romeo.
"A friend," came the answer softly. "A messenger from Babbiano with
letters for the Lord Count of Aquila. Throw me a rope, friends, before I
drown in this trough."
"You rave, fool!" answered him Gonzaga. "We have no counts at
Roccaleone."
"Surely, sir sentinel," replied the voice, "my master, Messer Francesco
del Falco, is here. Throw me a rope, I say."
"Messer Fran----" began Gonzaga. Then he made a noise like a man
choking. It was as if a sudden light of revelation had flooded his
brain. "Get a rope," he harshly bade the sentry. "In the armoury yard.
Despatch, fool!" he added sharply, now fearing interruption.
In a moment the man was back, and the rope was lowered to the visitor
below. A few seconds later Zaccaria stood on the ramparts of Roccaleone,
the water dripping from his sodden garments, and gathering in a pool
about his feet.
"This way," said Gonzaga, leading the man towards the armoury tower,
where a lanthorn was burning. By the light of it he surveyed the
newcomer, and bade the sentry close the door and remain within call,
without.
Zaccaria looked startled at the order. This was scarcely the reception
he had expected after so imperilling his life to reach the castle with
his letter.
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