a glassy stare.
Then he roused himself by an effort, and raised himself upon his elbow.

"That is it, boy--ride on alone. Take Falcone. Listen, there are three
score men of mine at Pagliano who will follow you to Hell at a word that
Falcone shall speak to them from me. About it, then, and save her. But
wait, boy! Do no violence to Farnese, if you can help it."

"But if I can't?" I asked.

"If you can't--no matter. But endeavour not to offer him any hurt! Leave
that to me--anon when all is ripe for it. To-day it would be premature,
and... and we... we should be... crushed by the..." His speech trailed off
into incoherent mutterings; his eyelids dropped, and he was fast asleep
again.

Ten minutes later we were riding north again, and all that night we
rode, along the endless Aemilian Way, pausing for no more than a draught
of wine from time to time, and munching a loaf as we rode. We crossed
the Po, and kept steadily on, taking fresh horses when we could, until
towards sunset a turn in the road brought Pagliano into our view--grey
and lichened on the crest of its smooth emerald hill.

The dusk was falling and lights began to gleam from some of the castle
windows when we brought up in the shadow of the gateway.

A man-at-arms lounged out of the guardhouse to inquire our business.

"Is Madonna Bianca wed yet?" was the breathless greeting I gave him.

He peered at me, and then at Falcone, and he swore in some surprise.

"Well, returned my lord! Madonna Bianca? The nuptials were celebrated
to-day. The bride has gone."

"Gone?" I roared. "Gone whither, man?"

"Why, to Piacenza--to my Lord Cosimo's palace there. They set out some
three hours since."

"Where is your lord?" I asked him, flinging myself from the saddle.

"Within doors, most noble."

How I found him, or by what ways I went to do so, are things that are
effaced completely from my memory. But I know that I came upon him in
the library. He was sitting hunched in a great chair, his face ashen,
his eyes fevered. At sight of me--the cause, however innocent, of all
this evil--his brows grew dark, and his eyes angry. If he had reproaches
for me, I gave him no time to utter them, but hurled him mine.

"What have you done, sir?" I demanded. "By what right did you do this
thing? By what right did you make a sacrifice of that sweet dove?
Did you conceive me so vile as to think that I should ever owe you
gratitude--that I should ever do aught but abhor the deed