"Ser Ercole be reasonable, I beg of
you. Are we to alarm the castle and disturb Monna Valentina over a
trumpery affair such as this? Man, they will laugh at you."
"Eh?" There was nothing Ercole relished less than to be laughed at. He
pondered a moment, and it occurred to him that perhaps he was making much
of nothing. Then:
"You, Aventano," he called, "take your partisan, and patrol the eastern
rampart. There, Messer Gonzaga, I have obeyed your wishes; but Messer
Francesco shall hear of it when he comes his rounds."
Gonzaga left him. Francesco would not make his rounds for another hour,
and by then it would not matter what Fortemani told him. In one way or
another he would be able to account for his action.
He crossed the courtyard, and mounted the steps leading to his own
chamber. Once there, he closed and barred the door. He kindled a light,
and flinging the letter on the table, he sat and contemplated its
exterior and the great red seal that gleamed in the yellow light of his
taper.
So! This knight-errant, this man whom he had accounted a low-born hind,
was none other than the famous Count of Aquila, the well-beloved of the
people of Babbiano, the beau-ideal of all military folk from Sicily to
the Alps. And he had never suspected it! Dull-witted did he now account
himself. Enough descriptions had he heard of that famous condottiero,
that mirror of Italian chivalry. He might have known that there did not
live two men of such commanding ways as he had seen instanced at
Roccaleone.
Pages:
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285