e issue concerned her no whit.

"Tell me, sirrah," she said, "and as you value your neck, see that you
answer me truly--what is your master's name?"

Lanciotto looked from her to Gonzaga, who stood by, a cynical curl on
his sensual lips.

"Answer Monna Valentina," the courtier urged him. "State your master's
true name and station."

"But, lady," began Lanciotto, bewildered.

"Answer me!" she stormed, her small clenched hands beating the table in
harsh impatience. And Lanciotto, seeing no help for it, answered:

"Messer Francesco del Falco, Count of Aquila."

Something that began in a sob and ended in a laugh burst from the lips
of Valentina. Ercole's eyes were wide at the news, and he might have
gone the length of interposing a question, when Gonzaga curtly bade
him go to the armoury tower, and bring thence the soldier and the man
Gonzaga had left in his care.

"I will leave no shadow of doubt in your mind, Madonna," he said in
explanation.

They waited in silence--for Lanciotto's presence hindered
conversation--until Ercole returned accompanied by the man-at-arms and
Zaccaria, who had now changed his raiment. Before they could question
the new-comer, such questions as they might have put were answered by
the greeting that passed between him and his fellow-servant Lanciotto.

Gonzaga turned to Valentina. She sat very still, her tawny head bowed
and in her eyes a look of sore distress. And in that instant a brisk
step sounded without. The door was thrust open, and Francesco himself
stood upon the threshold, with Peppe's alarmed face showing behind him.
Gonzaga instinctively drew back a pace, and his countenance lost some of
its colour.

At sight of Francesco, Zaccaria rushed forward and bowed profoundly.

"My lord!" he greeted him.

And if one little thing had been wanting to complete the evidence
against the Count, that thing, by an odd mischance, Francesco himself
seemed to supply. The strange group in that dining-room claiming
his attention, and the portentous air that hung about those present,
confirmed the warning Peppe had brought him that something was amiss.
He disregarded utterly his servant's greeting, and with eyes of a
perplexity that may have worn the look of alarm he sought the face of
Valentina.

She rose upon the instant, an angry red colouring her cheeks. His very
glance, it seemed, was become an affront unbearable after what had
passed--for the memory of his kiss bit like a poisoned fa