"That letter you have written Gian Maria," was the gruff, uncompromising
answer, for Ercole reeked nothing of diplomatic issues.
Gonzaga's mouth jerked itself open, and his upper lip shuddered against
his teeth.
"What---- Wha----"
"Give me that letter," Ercole insisted, now advancing upon him, and
wearing an air of ferocity that drove back into Gonzaga's throat such
resentful words as he bethought him of. Then, like an animal at bay--and
even a rat will assert itself then--he swung aloft the heavy arbalest he
held, and stood barring Ercole's way.
"Stand back!" he cried; "or by God and His saints, I'll beat your brains
out."
There was a guttural laugh from the swashbuckler, and then his arms were
round Gonzaga's shapely waist, and the popinjay was lifted from his feet.
Viciously he brought down the cross-bow, as he had threatened; but it
smote the empty air. The next instant Gonzaga was hurtled, bruised, into
a corner of the tower.
In a rage so great that he felt it draining him of his very strength and
choking the breath in his body, he made a movement to rise and fling
himself again upon his aggressor. But Fortemani was down upon him, and
for all his struggles contrived to turn him over on his face, twisting
his arms behind him, and making them fast with a belt that lay at hand.
"Lie still, you scorpion!" growled the ruffler, breathing hard from his
exertions. He rose, took the shaft with the letter tied about it, read
the superscription--"To the High and Mighty Lord Gian Maria Sforza"--and
with a chuckle of mingled relish and scorn, he was gone, locking the
door.
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