Cesena. Had it not been for that most untoward
circumstance I almost believe that while I waited for the sun to set on
that December afternoon, my mood had not only been calm but even in some
measure joyous, for it must have comforted my last moments to reflect
that for all that Messer Ramiro was about to hang me, yet had I sown the
seeds of his own destruction ere he had brought me to this pass.

I did, indeed, reflect upon it, and it may even be that, in spite of
all, I culled some grain of comfort from the reflection. But let that
be. My narrative would drag wearily were I to digress that I might tell
you at length the ugly course of my thoughts whilst the sands of my last
hour were running swiftly out. For, after all, my concern and yours is
with the story of Lazzaro Biancomonte, sometime known as Boccadoro the
Fool, and not with his philosophies--philosophies so unprofitable that
it can benefit no man that I should set them down.

My windows faced west, and so I was able to watch the fall of the sun,
and measure by its shortening distance from the horizon the ebbing of
my poor life. At last the nether rim of that round, fiery orb was on
the point of touching the line of distant hills, and it was casting a
crimson glow along the white, snow-sheeted landscape that was singularly
suggestive of a tide of blood--a very fitting tide to flow and ebb about
the walls of the Castle of Cesena.

One little thing there was might save me, Ramiro had said. But I had
shut the thought out of my mind to keep me from utter distraction. The
only little thing in which I held that my salvation could lie would be
in the miraculous arrival of Cesare Borgia, and of that not the faintest
hope existed. If the greatest luck attended Mariani's errand and the
greatest speed were made by the Duke once he received the letter, he
could not reach Cesena in less than another eight hours. And another
eight minutes, to reckon by the swift sinking of the sun would see the
time appointed for my hanging. I thought of Joshua in that grim hour,
and in a mood that approached the whimsical I envied him his gift. If I
could have stayed the setting of the sun, and held it where it was till
midnight, all might yet be well if Mariani had been diligent and Cesare
swift.

The key grating in the lock put an end to my vague musings, and reminded
me of the fact that I had neglected to employ that last hour as would
have become a good son of Mother Church. For an