There was a stir of hoofs without. They thundered
on the planks of the drawbridge and clattered on the
stones of the courtyard. The thought of Cesare
Borgia rose to my mind. But never did drowning
man clutch at a more illusory straw. Cold reason
quenched my hope at once. If the greatest imaginable
success attended Mariani’s journey, the Duke
could not reach Cesena before midnight, and to that
it wanted some ten hours at least. Moreover,
the company that came was small to judge by the sound—a
half-dozen horses at the most.
But Ramiro’s attention had been diverted from
me by the noise. Half-turning in his chair,
he called to one of the men-at-arms to ascertain who
came. Before the fellow could do his bidding,
the door was thrust open and Lucagnolo appeared on
the threshold, jaded and worn with hard riding.
A certain excitement arose in me at sight of him,
despite my confidence that he must be returning empty-handed.
Ramiro rose, pushed back his chair and advanced towards
the new-comer.
“Well?” he demanded. “What
news?”
“Excellency, the girl is here.”
That answer seemed to turn me into stone, so great
was the shock of this sudden shattering of the confidence
that had sustained me.
“My search in the country failing,” pursued
the captain, as he came forward, “I made bold
to exceed your orders by pushing my inquiries as far
as the village of Cattolica. There I found her
after some little labour.”
Surely I dreamt. Surely, I told myself, this
was not possible. There was some mistake.
Lucagnolo had drought some wench whom he believed
to be Madonna Paola.
But even as I was assuring myself of this, the door
opened again, and between two men-at-arms, white as
death, her garments stained with mud and all but reduced
to rags, and her eyes wild with a great fear, came
my beloved Paola.
With a sound that was as a grunt of satisfaction,
Ramiro strode forward to meet her. But her eyes
travelled past him and rested upon me, standing there
between the leather-clad executioners with the cords
of the torture pinioning my wrists, and I saw the
anguish deepen in their blue depths.
DOOMED
Across the length of that hall our eyes met—hers
and mine—and held each other’s glances.
To me the room and all within it formed an indistinct
and misty picture, from out of which there clearly
gleamed my Paola’s sweet, white face.
All at the table had risen with Ramiro, and now, copying
their leader, they bared their heads in outward token
of such respect as certainly would have been felt
by any men less abandoned than were they before so
much saintly beauty and distress.
Lucagnolo had stepped aside, and Ramiro was now bowing
low and ceremoniously before Madonna. His face
I could not see, since his back was towards me, but
his tones, as they floated across the hall to where
I stood, came laden with subservience.
