way, had
ridden for a league or two in vehement converse with their lieutenant.
To him there seemed more to say than ever to her. She felt hurt and
wanted to cry.

At their inn they learned the news--that is, Amilcare learned it, for
Molly was languishing upon a bed, forgotten and mercifully forgetting.
Pretty news it was. Don Cesare, it appeared, had stabbed the Duke of
Gandia, his brother, three nights ago, and thrown him into the Tiber.
The body had only been fished out yesterday; it had nine wounds in it,
including one in the throat big enough to put your fist in. It was a
sieve, not a body: perforated! His Holiness? Ah, he could be heard even
here, howling in the Vatican, like a bitch in an empty house. Don Cesare
was in hiding, reported at Foligno. To-morrow there was to be a Holy
Conclave--all the Cardinals. God knew what Alexander had or had not in
his mind, the conscience-stricken old dog. It was known what he had not
in his house, at least. Vannozza had been thrice refused admission; so
also La Bella Lucrezia. Think of it!

This was very grave news to Amilcare's private ear. Cesare was his
deadly enemy, the one man he honestly feared; the one man, consequently,
he wanted to meet. He was still brooding over it when the broad-backed
butcher they call Il Drudo slammed him on the back.

"Fortune is with you, Passavente--the slut! She gives you time to
breathe. The Borgia had a sinking of the stomach; he hankered after a
filling of Lombard sausage a little while since. Gandia cut in, and
Cesare cut in, _per Bacco_! But mark my words, Amilcare, the appetite
will return. You will have the Duke in your March before many days.
Therefore my advice to you is--Avoid Foligno; fortify Nona."

Amilcare looked his man in the face. "And my advice to myself, Galeotto,
is--Seek Foligno, and so fortify Nona. _Addio._" He went out like a man
who has found his way.

"Now, what the devil did the fellow mean by that?" cried Il Drudo, with
his thick fingers out.

"Devilry expresses it," said a sly secretary in black.

Molly in dreams, soft as a child and glossy with sleep, looked too
beautiful for a disturbing hand to dare anything that night. It would
have been the act of a brute, not Amilcare's act. In small things he was
all gentleness. He crept into bed like a cat, fearful of waking her, and
next morning contrived, by a fit of coughing, to waken her no more than
half. The rest he did by methods equally adroit, until by imp