Again Cappoccio sought to scrutinise Gonzaga’s face. But the light was indifferent.
“Are you dealing with me fairly?” he asked. “Or does some deeper purpose lie under your wish that we should rebel against the lady?”
“My friend,” answered Gonzaga, “do you but wait until Gian Maria’s herald comes for his answer in the morning. Then you will learn again the terms on which your lives are offered you. Do nothing until then. But when you hear yourselves threatened with the rope and the wheel, bethink you of what course you will be best advised in pursuing. You ask me what purpose inspires me. I have already told you–for I am as open as the daylight with you–that I am inspired by the purpose of saving my own neck. Is not that purpose enough?”
A laugh of such understanding as would have set a better man on fire with indignation was the answer he received.
“Why, yes, it is more than enough. To-morrow, then, my comrades and I march out of Roccaleone. Count upon that.”
“But do not accept my word. Wait until the herald comes again. Do nothing until you have heard the terms he brings.”
“Why, no, assuredly not.”
“And do not let it transpire among your fellows that it is I who have suggested this.”
“Why no. I’ll keep your secret,” laughed the bravo offensively, shouldering his partisan and resuming his sentinel’s pacing.
Gonzaga sought his bed. A fierce joy consumed him at having so consummately planned Valentina’s ruin, yet he did not wish to face her again that night.
But when on the morrow the herald wound his horn again beneath the castle walls, Gonzaga was prominent in the little group that attended Monna Valentina. The Count of Aquila was superintending the work to which he had set a half-score of men. With a great show, and as much noise as possible–by which Francesco intended that the herald should be impressed–they were rolling forward four small culverins and some three cannons of larger calibre, and planting them so that they made a menacing show in the crenels of the parapet.
Whilst watching and directing the men, he kept his ears open for the message, and he heard the herald again recite the terms on which the garrison might surrender, and again the threat to hang every man from the castle-walls if they compelled him to reduce them by force of arms. He brought his message to an end by announcing that in his extreme clemency Gian Maria accorded them another half-hour’s grace in which to resolve themselves upon their course. Should the end of that time still find them obstinate, the bombardment would commence. Such was the message that in another of his arrow-borne letters Gonzaga had suggested Gian Maria should send.
It was Francesco who stepped forward to reply. He had been stooping over one of the guns, as if to assure himself of the accuracy of its aim, and as he rose he pronounced himself satisfied in a voice loud enough for the herald’s hearing. Then he advanced to Valentina’s side, and whilst he stood there delivering his answer he never noticed the silent departure of the men from the wall.
“You will tell his Highness of Babbiano,” he replied, “that he reminds us of the boy in the fable who cried ‘Wolf!’ too often. Tell him, sir, that his threats leave this garrison as unmoved as do his promises. If so be that he intends in truth to bombard us, let him begin forthwith. We are ready for him, as you perceive. Maybe he did not suppose us equipped with cannon; but there they stand. Those guns are trained upon his camp, and the first shot he fires upon us shall be a signal for such a reply as he little dreams of. Tell him, too, that we expect no quarter, and will yield none. We are unwilling for bloodshed, but if he drives us to it and executes his purpose of employing cannon, then the consequences be upon his own head. Bear him that answer, and tell him to send you no more with empty threats.”
The herald bowed upon the withers of his horse. The arrogance, the cold imperiousness of the message struck him dumb with amazement. Amazement was his, too, that Roccaleone should be armed with cannon, as with his own eyes he saw. That those guns were empty he could not guess, nor could Gian Maria when he heard a message that filled him with rage, and would have filled him with dismay, but that he counted upon the mutiny which Gonzaga had pledged himself to stir up.
As the herald was riding away a gruff laugh broke from Fortemani, who stood behind the Count.
Valentina turned to Francesco with eyes that beamed admiration and a singular tenderness.
“Oh, what had I done without you, Messer Francesco?” she cried, for surely the twentieth time since his coming. “I tremble to think how things had gone without your wit and valour to assist me.” She never noticed the malicious smile that trembled on Gonzaga’s pretty face. “Where did you find the powder?” she asked innocently, for her mind had not yet caught that humour of the situation that had drawn a laugh from Fortemani.
“I found none,” answered Francesco, smiling from the shadow of his helm. “My threats”–and he waved his hand in the direction of that formidable array of guns–“are as empty as Gian Maria’s. Yet I think they will impress him more than his do us. I will answer for it, Madonna, that they deter him from bombarding us–if so be that he ever intended to. So let us go and break our fast with a glad courage.”
“Those guns are empty?” she gasped. “And you could talk so boldly and threaten so defiantly!”
Mirth crept now into her face, and thrust back the alarm, a little of which had peeped from her eyes even as she was extolling Francesco.
“There!” he cried joyously. “You are smiling now, Madonna. Nor have you cause for aught else. Shall we descend? This early morning work has given me the hunger of a wolf.”
She turned to go with him, and in that moment, Peppe, his owlish face spread over with alarm, dashed up the steps from the courtyard.
“Madonna!” he gasped, breathless. “Messer Francesco! The men– Cappoccio—- He is haranguing them. He–is inciting them to treachery.”
So, in gasps, he got out his tale, which swept the mirth again from Valentina’s eyes, and painted very white her cheek. Strong and brave though she was, she felt her senses swimming at that sudden revulsion from confidence to fear. Was all indeed ended at the very moment when hope had reached its high meridian?
“You are faint, Madonna; lean on me.”
It was Gonzaga who spoke. But beyond the fact that the words had been uttered, she realised nothing. She saw an arm advanced, and she took it. Then she dragged Gonzaga with her to the side overlooking the courtyard, that with her own eyes she might have evidence of what was toward.
She heard an oath–a vigorous, wicked oath–from Francesco, followed by a command, sharp and rasping.
“To the armoury yonder, Peppe! Fetch me a two-handed sword–the stoutest you can find. Ercole, come with me. Gonzaga—- Nay, you had best stay here. See to Monna Valentina.”
He stepped to her side now, and rapidly surveyed the surging scene below, where Cappoccio was still addressing the men. At sight of Francesco, they raised a fierce yell, as might a pack of dogs that have sighted their quarry.
“To the gates!” was the shout. “Down the drawbridge! We accept the terms of Gian Maria. We will not die like rats.”
“By God, but you shall, if I so will it!” snarled Francesco through his set teeth. Then turning his head in a fever of impatience “Peppe,” he shouted, “will you never bring that sword?”
The fool came up at that moment, staggering under the weight of a great, double-edged two-hander, equipped with lugs, and measuring a good six feet from point to pummel. Francesco caught it from him, and bending, he muttered a swift order in Peppino’s ear.
“…In the box that stands upon the table in my chamber,” Gonzaga overheard him say. “Now go, and bring it to me in the yard. Speed you, Peppino!”
A look of understanding flashed up from the hunchback’s eyes, and as he departed at a run Francesco hoisted the mighty sword to his shoulder as though its weight were that of a feather. In that instant Valentina’s white hand was laid upon the brassart that steeled his fore-arm.
“What will you do?” she questioned, in a whisper, her eyes dilating with alarm.
“Stem the treachery of that rabble,” he answered shortly. “Stay you here, Madonna. Fortemani and I will pacify them–or make an end of them.” And so grimly did he say it that Gonzaga believed it to lie within his power.