ade him.

"You, my lord?" exclaimed the jester.

"You sleep soundly at Roccaleone," quoth Francesco. "Bestir that knavish
garrison of yours, and bid the lazy dogs let down the bridge. I have
news for Monna Valentina."

"At once, Excellency," the fool replied, and would have gone upon the
instant but that Francesco recalled him.

"Say, Peppe, a knight--the knight she met at Acquasparta, if you will.
But leave my name unspoken."

With the assurance that he would obey his wishes Peppe went his errand.
A slight delay ensued, and then upon the battlements appeared Gonzaga,
sleepy and contentious, attended by a couple of Fortemani's knaves, who
came to ask the nature of Francesco's business.

"It is with Monna Valentina," answered him Francesco, raising head
and voice, so that Gonzaga recognised him for the wounded knight of
Acquasparta, remembered and scowled.

"I am Monna Valentina's captain here," he announced, with arrogance.
"And you may deliver to me such messages as you bear."

There followed a contention, conducted ill-humouredly on the part of
Gonzaga and scarcely less so on the Count's, Francesco stoutly refusing
to communicate his business to any but Valentina, and Gonzaga as stoutly
refusing to disturb the lady at that hour, or to lower the bridge. Words
flew between them across the waters of the moat, and grew hotter at each
fresh exchange, till in the end they were abruptly terminated by the
appearance of Valentina herself, attended by Peppino.

"What is this, Gonzaga?" she inquired, her manner excited, for the fool
had told her that it was the knight Francesco who sought admittance,
and at the very mention of the name she had flushed, then paled, then
started for the ramparts. "Why is this knight denied admittance since
he bears a message for me?" And from where she stood she sought
with admiring eyes the graceful shape of the Count of Aquila--the
knight-errant of her dreams. Francesco bared his head, and bent to
the withers of his horse in courteous greeting. She turned to Gonzaga
impatiently.

"For what do you wait?" she cried. "Have you not understood my wishes?
Let the bridge be lowered."

"Bethink you, Madonna," he remonstrated. "You do not know this man. He
may be a spy of Gian Maria's--a hireling paid to betray us."

"You fool," she answered sharply. "Do you not see that it is the wounded
knight we met that day you were escorting me to Urbino?"

"What shall that signify?" demanded he. "Is