e black
and purple Eastern rug. The boy dived after it, and presented it to his
lordship.

The ring bore an escutcheon, and the Cardinal found graven upon this
escutcheon his own arms the Sforza lion and the flower of the quince.
Instantly those dark, thoughtful eyes of his grew keen as they flashed
upon the page.

"Did you see the device?" he asked, a hint of steel under the silkiness
of his voice.

"I saw nothing, my lord--a ring, no more. I did not even look."

The Cardinal continued to ponder him for a long moment very searchingly.

"Go--bring this man," he said at last; and the boy departed, soon
to reappear; holding aside the tapestry that masked the door to give
passage to a man of middle height wrapped in a black cloak, his face
under a shower of golden hair, covered from chin to brow by a black
visor.

At a sign from the Cardinal the page departed. Then the man, coming
forward, let fall his cloak, revealing a rich dress of close-fitting
violet silk, sword and dagger hanging from his jewelled girdle; he
plucked away the mask, and disclosed the handsome, weak face of Giovanni
Sforza, Lord of Pesaro and Cotignola, the discarded husband of Madonna
Lucrezia, Pope Alexander's daughter.

The Cardinal considered his nephew gravely, without surprise. He had
expected at first no more than a messenger from the owner of that
ring. But at sight of his figure and long, fair hair he had recognized
Giovanni before the latter had removed his mask.

"I have always accounted you something mad," said the Cardinal softly.
"But never mad enough for this. What brings you to Rome?"

"Necessity, my lord," replied the young tyrant. "The need to defend my
honour, which is about to be destroyed."

"And your life?" wondered his uncle. "Has that ceased to be of value?"

"Without honour it is nothing."

"A noble sentiment taught in every school. But for practical purposes--"
The Cardinal shrugged.

Giovanni, however, paid no heed.

"Did you think, my lord, that I should tamely submit to be a derided,
outcast husband, that I should take no vengeance upon, that villainous
Pope for having made me a thing of scorn, a byword throughout Italy?"
Livid hate writhed in his fair young face. "Did you think I should,
indeed, remain in Pesaro, whither I fled before their threats to my
life, and present no reckoning?"

"What is the reckoning you have in mind?" inquired his uncle, faintly
ironical. "You'll not be intending to kill the H