Then you love this fellow?" he gasped. "You, Madonna Paola Sforza di
Santafior, one of the noblest ladies in all Italy, confess to love this
lordling of a few barren acres?"

"I loved him, Illustrious, when he was less, much less, than that.
I loved him when he was little better than the Fool of the Court of
Pesaro, and not even the shame of the motley that disgraced him could
stay the impulse of my affections."

He laughed curiously.

"By my faith," said he, "I have gone through life complaining of the
want of frankness in the men and women I have met. But you two seem
to deal in it liberally enough to satisfy the most ardent seeker after
truth. I would that Pontius Pilate could have known you." Then he grew
sterner. "But what account of this evening's adventure am I to bear to
my cousin Ignacio?"

She hung her head in silence, whilst my own spirit trembled. Then
suddenly I spoke.

"My lord," said I, "if you take her back to Pesaro, you may keep the
deed of Biancomonte. For unless Madonna Paola goes thither with me, your
gift is a barren one, your reward of no account or value to me."

"I would not have it so," said he, his head on one side and his fingers
toying with his auburn beard. "You saved my life, and you must be
rewarded fittingly."

"Then, Illustrious, in payment for my preservation of your life, do you
render happy mine, and we shall thus be quits."

"My lord," cried Paola, putting forth her hands in supplication, "if you
have ever loved, befriend us now."

A shadow darkened his face for an instant, then it was gone, and his
expression was as inscrutable as ever. Yet he took her hands in his and
looked down into her eyes.

"They say that I am hard, bloodthirsty and unfeeling," he said in tones
that were almost of complaint. "But I am not proof against so much
appeal. Ignacio must find him a bride in Spain; and if he is wise and
would taste the sweets of life, he will see to it that he finds him a
willing one."

"As for you two, Cesare Borgia shalt stand your friend. He owes you no
less. I will be godfather to your nuptials. Thus shall the blame and
consequences rest on me. Paola Sforza di Santafior is dead, men think.
We will leave them thinking it. Filippo must know the truth. But you can
trust me to make your brother take a reasonable view of what has come
to pass. After all, there may be a disparity in your ranks. But it is
purely adventitious, for noble though you may be, Madonna Paola, you