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Updated: May 28, 2025
Are these words for the ears of a besieged and sorely harassed lady, craven?" "I am no craven," the man answered hoarsely, his face flushing under the whip of Francesco's scorn. "Out in the open I will take my chances, and fight in any cause that pays me. But this is not my trade this waiting for the death of a trapped rat."
The great bully hesitated. His knowledge of Francesco's methods was not encouraging. "Madonna!" gasped Francesco, his bewilderment increasing. "Did you hear me, Fortemani," she demanded. "Remove him." "My lord?" cried Lanciotto, laying hand to his sword his eyes upon his master's, ready to draw and lay about him at a glance of bidding. "Sh! Let be," answered Franeesco coldly.
To ensure the safe keeping of his captive, he had been ordered by Gonzaga, who now resumed command of Roccaleone, to spend the night in the ante-room of Francesco's chamber. These orders he had exceeded by spending a considerable portion of the night in the Count's very room.
The charms of the youthful bride revived the memory of the duke's mother, Beatrice d'Este, and a richly illuminated book of prayers, prepared in honour of this occasion, and adorned with miniatures and Sforza devices, bore witness to Francesco's artistic tastes, and showed his desire to tread in his father's steps. But these bright prospects were soon clouded.
"And a true one, as I know." She smiled at him so sweetly that Gonzaga was enraged. "I have not heard the name before," he murmured, adding: "Your father was ?" "A gentleman of Tuscany." "But not at Court?" suggested Romeo. "Why, yes, at Court." Then with a sly insolence that brought the blood to Francesco's cheeks, though to the chaste mind of Valentina's it meant nothing "Ah!" he rejoined.
The sight of those dead faces grinning horribly, their long, matted hair fluttering like rags in the April breeze, had arrested Francesco's attention as he drew nigh. But when presently he came nearer and looked with more intentness, a shudder of recognition ran through him, and a great horror filled his soul and paled his cheek.
The moonlight fell, with racing cloud-shadows, upon sea and hills, the lights of Lerici, the great fanali at the entrance of the gulf, and Francesco's upturned handsome face.
He went white with fear and he leant against the low wall to steady the tell-tale trembling that had seized him. Then Francesco's voice, scornful and confident, floated up to his ears. "I ask you, my friends, would his Highness of Babbiano be disposed to the payment of a thousand gold florins if by bombardment he thought to break a way into Roccaleone? This letter was written yesterday.
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 did Hermione's heart echo Vere's words with such a strenuous and sudden passion, such a deep desire? She scarcely knew then. But she knew that she wanted a light to be shining for her when she neared home longed for it, needed it specially that night. If San Francesco's lamp were burning quietly amid the fury of the sea in such a blackness as this about them well, it would seem like an omen.
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