s timbers.
Paralysed by fear Ramiro stood where he had halted, turning his eyes
wildly in this direction and in that, but never moving one way or the
other.

It must be Cesare, I swore to myself. Who else could ride to Cessna with
such numbers? But then, if it was Cesare, it could not be that he had
seen Mariani, for he could not have ridden from Faenza. Madonna had
risen too, and with a white face and straining eyes she was looking
towards the door.

And then our doubts were at last ended. There was a jangle of spurs and
the fall of feet, and through the open door stepped a straight, martial
figure in a doublet of deep crimson velvet, trimmed with costly lynx
furs and slashed with satin in the sleeves and shoulder-puffs; jewels
gleamed in the massive chain across his breast and at the marroquin
girdle that carried his bronze-hilted sword; his hose was of red silk,
and his great black boots were armed with golden spurs. But to crown all
this very regal splendour was the beautiful, pale, cold face of Cesare
Borgia, from out of which two black eyes flashed and played like
sword-points on the company.

Behind him surged a press of mercenaries, in steel, their weapons naked
in their hands, so that no doubt was left of the character of this
visit.

Collecting himself, and bethinking him that after all, he had best
dissemble a good countenance; Ramiro advanced respectfully to meet his
overlord. But ere he had taken three steps the Duke stayed him.

"Stand where you are, traitor," was the imperious command. "I'll trust
you no nearer to my person." And to emphasise his words he raised his
gloved left hand, which had been resting on his sword-hilt, and in which
I now observed that he held a paper.

Whether Ramiro recognised it, or whether it was that the mere sight of
a paper reminded him of the letter which on my testimony should be in
Cesare's keeping, or whether again the word "traitor" with which Cesare
branded him drove the iron deeper into his soul, I cannot say; but to
this I can testify: that he turned a livid green, and stood there before
his formidable master in an attitude so stricken as to have aroused pity
for any man less a villain than was he.

And now Cesare's eye, travelling round, alighted on Madonna Paola,
standing back in the shadows to which she had instinctively withdrawn at
his coming. At sight of her he recoiled a pace, deeming, no doubt, that
it was an apparition stood before him. Then he looked