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Leonora D'Orco: A Historical Romance

by G. P. R. James · English · Gutenberg #50964 · 794,337 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Leonora D'Orco: A Historical Romance

Author: G. P. R. James


        
Release date: January 18, 2016 [eBook #50964]
                Most recently updated: October 22, 2024

Language: English

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DÜRR'S COLLECTION OF STANDARD
AMERICAN AND BRITISH
AUTHORS.

EDITED
BY WILLIAM E. DRUGULIN.
VOL. 50.
--------

LEONORA D'ORCO.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.





LEONORA D'ORCO.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.


BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,
AUTHOR OF "LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE," "THE OLD DOMINION,"
"TICONDEROGA," "AGNES SOREL," ETC.


COPYRIGHT EDITION.


LEIPZIG: ALPHONS DÜRR.
1860.






LEONORA D'ORCO.




CHAPTER I.


There is a mountain pass, not far from the shores of the Lago
Maggiore, which has been famous of late years for anything but _fêtes_
and festivals. There, many an unfortunate traveller has been relieved
of the burden of worldly wealth, and sometimes of all earthly cares;
and there, many a postillion has quietly received, behind an oak-tree
or a chesnut, a due share of the day's earnings from a body of those
Italian gentlemen whose life is generally spent in working upon the
highways, either with a long gun in their hands or a chain round their
middles.

But, dear reader, the times I speak of were centuries ago--those named
"the good old times," though Heaven only knows why they were called
"good."

The world was in a very strange state just then. The resurrection of
art--the recovery of letters--the new birth of science, marked out the
age as one of extraordinary development; but the state of society
from which all these bright things sprang--flowers rising from a
dunghill--was one of foul and filthy fermentation, where every
wickedness that the corrupt heart of man can devise worked and
travailed for the birth of better things. That pass, in those "good
old times," saw every day as much high-handed wrong and ruthless
bloodshed as any pass in all Italy at the present time.

But such was not destined to be the case upon the present occasion,
though the times of which I write were the end of the fifteenth and
the beginning of the sixteenth centuries. Guilt, and fraud, and even
murder, often in those days covered themselves with golden embroidery
and perfumed flowers; and, interposed between acts of violence,
rapine, and destruction, were brilliant festivals, the luxurious
banquet, and the merry dance.

Wickedness, like virtue, proposes to itself enjoyment for its object;
and the Bible is right when, as it often does, it uses the word wisdom
as synonymous with virtue, for in the wisdom of the means is the
certainty of the attainment. But the men of those days, as if they
felt--how could they avoid feeling?--the insecurity of the ground on
which they based their endeavours for the acquisition of happiness,
were content to take the distant and doubtful payment by instalments
of fruition, and let the revel, the pageant, the debauch go to the
great reckoning as so much gained, without thinking of the terrible
_per contra_.

That pass was well fitted to afford a scene for many of the dealings
of those or these days. There the robber might lurk perfectly
concealed in the dark nooks and crannies of the rocks, to spring forth
upon the unwary traveller when least prepared--there a handful of men
might defend the passage against an army--there, the gay, happy party
might raise the wild echo of the mountains to their joyous songs--and
there the artist might linger for long hours, studying the fantastic
shapes into which the ground has been thrown, and filling up the
shadowy recesses with forms such as Rosa loved to draw.

For somewhat less than two miles, the road, which, even in those days,
was a good and well-constructed highway, passed between two ranges of
rocks. On one side--the left hand, going north--a stream ran by the
side of the path, some twenty feet below its level; but the bank
itself could be easily descended to the river, and the stream, though
deep in some places, was easily to be crossed at others, where it
spread out over fallen rocks and stones. But what was the use of
crossing it? On the other side was no path, and nothing but tall,
ragged cliffs, in some places upright and flat, as if they had been
cut with a knife, in others assuming the most wild and fantastic
forms. Here was a strange grinning face, of gigantic size, starting
forth in stone from the surface of the cliff; there a whole statue
standing out from the rocky mass, as if a sentinel guarding the pass;
then would come a castle with towers and keep, ballium and barbican
and all, and yet nought but mere rock, wrought by no hands but those
of time, earthquake, and tempest. But every here and there, from
pinnacle and point, or out of dell and cavern, would spring a dark
pine or light green ash; and the sight of even vegetable life would
harmonize the scene with human thoughts.

The average width of the bottom of the valley, including river and
road, might be a hundred yards; but there was one place, nearly at the
middle of the gorge--probably where, in ages far remote, before
history or even tradition began, the stream, rushing new-born from the
mountains, had paused in its course to gather strength ere it forced
its way through the rocky barrier opposed to it--in which a little
amphitheatre appeared, the mountains receding on either hand to let
the river make a circuit round a low knoll and its adjacent meadow,
some three hundred yards across. A clump of trees had gathered
together on the top of the little hillock, the turf was short and
smooth; the stream, though still rapid, and fretting at the fallen
stones in its way, had less of the torrent-like turbulence which it
displayed where the pass was narrower; now and then, too, it would
lapse into a quiet, deep, unruffled pool, where the many-coloured
rocks and pebbles at the bottom could be seen, glazed and brightened
by its crystal waters; and the white clouds, floating over the deep
blue Italian sky, would seem to pause, with curious pleasure, in their
flight, to look down for a moment on that fair spot, amid so much
stony ruggedness.

Through this wild gorge, toward noon of a soft but breezy spring day
in the year of grace 1494, coming from the northwest, rode a gay, a
numerous, and a brilliant party; too few, indeed, to constitute an
army, but too many and too well armed to fear the attack of any party
of banditti less in number than those great mercenary bands whose
leisure in those days was seldom long enough to rob on their own
account, so great was the demand for their services, in the same way,
among the princes of the land. And yet the cavalcade of which I speak
did not altogether assume a military aspect. It is true that the rear
was brought up by a body of a couple of hundred lances, and that
between these and those who rode foremost were a number of gentlemen,
old and young, from beneath whose surcoats glanced corslet and
cuissard, and who, though they rode with velvet cap on head and
sometimes a hawk upon the wrist, had helmet, and lance, and shield
near at hand, borne by gay and splendidly-dressed pages. But the most
remarkable group had no warlike signs about it. All men but
ecclesiastics and serfs, in those days, bore some kind of arms during
their most peaceful avocations; and thus there were swords and daggers
enough among the little party; but there were men in the robes of the
Church--bishops, and archdeacons, and even a monk or two, while those
of secular habit looked more like the carpet-treading, soft-lying
children of a court than warriors born for strife and conquest.

Thrown a little in advance of the mass rode two men-at-arms, heavily
harnessed, and behind them, at perhaps twenty paces distance, five or
six others, lance in hand. Then, however, came the principal group, at
the head of which, with a crimson velvet bonnet or round cap on his
head, ornamented with a single large ruby clasping a long, thin
feather, appeared, as it seemed, a mere youth. He was short in
stature, and somewhat, though not remarkably, deformed; at least, the
fall of his wide and fur-trimmed mantle concealed in a great degree
the defect of symmetry in his figure. All, indeed, had been done that
the tailor's courtly art could do to conceal it, and the eye was more
inclined to rest upon the countenance than upon the form. The face was
not very handsome, but there was a frank, bold expression about it
which won upon the regard at first sight; and yet a certain look of
suffering--the trace, as it seemed, of a struggle between a high
courage and bodily infirmity--saddened his aspect. A mere passing
stranger would have fixed the age of that young horseman probably at
eighteen or nineteen, but he had seen, in reality, between twenty-two
and twenty-three years; and although many vicissitudes had not
attended his course, enough experience of the world, and courts, and
men, had been his to have made him older in appearance and older in
mind than he was.

Grouped half a step behind this figure, and stretching quite across
the road--for no one would yield a place which he could fairly claim
near the fountain of all honour and the source of advancement--were a
number of cavaliers, of all sorts of callings, distinguished in
general by some peculiarity of costume. At least, any eye accustomed
to the dress of that day could distinguish among them the hard old
warrior, the bishop, the high officer of the law, and gay and gallant
courtiers not a few, among whom, holding their rank immediately behind
the principal personage, were six pages, habited in what was called
purple cloth of gold, mounted on light but beautiful horses, bedizened
with silken housings, and knots of ribbons, and flaunting feathers.

Among these last was no rivalry for place, for each had his particular
station assigned to him; but with the rest an occasional angry word,
and a more frequent angry look, would mark the indignation of some
aspiring courtier at what he thought an attempt upon the part of
another to get before him.

"My Lord of Tremouille," said one sharply, "I wish you would refrain
your horse; I have hardly space to ride."

"He will not be refrained, my reverend lord," replied the other, "'tis
an ambitious beast, well nigh as aspiring as a churchman. He will
forward, whatever be in his way. Good sooth, he knows his place well
too, and thinks that, though he might make a poor show in a king's
closet, he may be found better near his sovereign in the march or the
battle than any of the mules of the Church."

The words were spoken in no very low tone, and probably they reached
the ears of the young man at the head of the cavalcade; but he took no
notice, though the prelate turned somewhat red, and several who were
near laughed low; and a moment or two after, the whole party emerged
from the narrower part of the gorge into that little amphitheatre
which I have lately described.

"Why, what is here?" cried the leader of the band, reining up his
horse. "This is a scene of fairy land? Who expected to meet with such
a spectacle in this desert?"

"Why, sire," replied the prelate, "you may remember his Excellency the
Regent of Milan promised to meet you somewhere near this spot--at
least before you reached the city."

"Ah, Louis the Moor knows where to lay chaff for young birds,"
muttered La Tremouille; "commend me to these Italians for wheedling
and trickery."

"Hush, hush!" said one of his companions; "you cannot deny,
Tremouille, that this Ludovic is a stout and skilful soldier, as well
as a shrewd politician. I know not how he gained the name of 'The
Moor,' but----"

"Why, they gave him the name because all his relations die black, or
turn black after they die," answered the gallant soldier, with a
bitter laugh; "but, on my life, the pageant is pretty. 'Tis a
gallantry not expected in this wild place. Only, my good friend, look
to what wine you drink at Ludovic's expense; it sometimes has a
strange taste, and stranger consequences, men say, especially upon his
enemies."

"I am no enemy," answered the other; "you, look to yourself,
Tremouille. You must either dare the boccone or die of thirst."

"Nay, he will find out that I am one of his best friends," answered La
Tremouille; "for I would fain have dissuaded the king from this wild
expedition; and Master Ludovic, who urged it so strongly, will find,
before he has done, that, ask a Frenchman to dinner, and he'll stay to
supper also."

The scene which had excited so much surprise, and even admiration
among the French, derived its principal interest from the ruggedness
of the objects around. Some twenty or thirty small tents had been
pitched in the little meadow, round which the river circled, each with
its pennon fluttering from the top of the gilt pole which supported
it, while the group of trees upon the little monticule in the midst
was so interlaced, at some eight feet from the ground, with ribbons
and festoons of flowers, that it afforded as complete a shade from the
sun as any of the pavilions. The trunks of the trees, too, were bound
round with garlands, and although neither Tasso nor Guarini had yet
fully revived the taste for the pastoral amongst the Italian people,
the groups which were seen, both in the tents and under the branches,
were all habited as shepherds and shepherdesses, according to the most
approved notions of Golden Age costume in those days.

In each of the pavilions, the canvas door of which was thrown wide
open, was spread a table apparently well supplied, and beneath the
trees appeared a kingly board covered with fine linen and rich plate,
while a buffet behind groaned beneath a mass of gold and silver. But
the sharp eye of La Tremouille soon espied that the two shepherds who
stood at either end of the buffet, as well as two more behind it, were
especially well armed for a pastoral race; and he did not fail to
comment with a laugh upon the anomaly.

"Pooh! pooh!" cried the young King Charles VIII., turning his head
over his shoulder to the stout soldier, but smiling at his remarks,
"why should not shepherds have arms? They must defend their muttons,
especially when such wolves as you are about!"

La Tremouille answered with a proverb of very ancient date, "Well,
sire, they cannot say I am a wolf in sheep's clothing. God send your
majesty may not find some in this country, where they are plenty, I am
told. Will you not dismount, sire, to do honour to this festa?"

"But where are our hosts?" asked Charles, looking round. "My Lord
Archbishop, can you distinguish among the shepherds, Prince Ludovic or
his fair lady? You have had advantage of us all in seeing their
Highnesses."

"On my hopes, sire, I cannot tell which they are, if they be here,"
replied the prelate. "Here, pretty maiden, will you let us know who is
the lord of this feast, and who are to be the guests?"

The last words were spoken in Italian to a very handsome, dark-eyed
shepherdess, who, with a coquettish air, had passed somewhat near the
royal party. But the girl merely replied by the word "Hark!" bending
her head on one side and affecting to listen attentively. A moment
after, the flourish of some trumpets was heard from the continuation
of the pass on the other side of the meadow; and La Tremouille,
turning round, gave some orders in a low tone to one of his
attendants. By him they were carried to the rear, and immediately the
party of lances which formed the king's escort put itself in motion,
and spread out round one side of the meadow in the form of a crescent,
leaving the monarch and his immediate attendants grouped on horseback
in the midst.

If this was a movement of precaution against any party approaching
from the other side, it was unnecessary. A moment after, on the
opposite side of the meadow, issuing from the gorge like a stream of
gold, appeared a cavalcade which the chroniclers of the day have
delighted to describe as the height of splendour and magnificence. At
its head appeared Ludovico Sforza, nicknamed "the Moor," accompanied
by the Princess of Ferrara his young wife, and followed by the whole
court of Milan, each vying with the other in luxury and display. "The
princess," says an Italian writer of the day, "was mounted on a superb
horse, covered with cloth of gold and crimson velvet. She wore a dress
of green cloth of gold, floating over which was a light gauze. Her
hair, only bound by a ribbon, fell gracefully upon her shoulders
and upon her bosom. On her head she bore a hat of crimson silk,
surmounted by five or six feathers of red and grey. Her suite
comprised twenty-two ladies of the first rank, all dressed like
herself, and six cars followed, covered with cloth of gold, and filled
with the rarest beauties of Italy."

It would be tedious as well as difficult to give any description of
the scene that followed. The two parties soon mingled together.
Ceremony and parade were forgotten in gallantry and enjoyment. The
younger men at once gave themselves up to the pleasures of the hour,
and even the older and more sedate warriors and counsellors soon shook
off their frosty reserve under the warming influence of beauty and
wine; and thus began the expedition of Charles VIII. to Naples, more
like some festal pilgrimage than the hostile invasion of a neighbour's
dominions. Thus it began, and thus it proceeded till the end was
obtained, and then the scene changed to hard blows instead of feasts
and pageants, and care and anxiety instead of revelry and enjoyment.

I have said it would be tedious to describe what followed; but there
were episodes in the little drama acted in that wild amphitheatre
which connect themselves with my story, and must be told.




CHAPTER II.


General conversation between the two courts of France and Milan was
somewhat difficult; for, to say sooth, there were many there who could
not speak the language of their neighbours, or spoke it very
imperfectly. But Frenchmen, and Italians likewise, are famous for
delivering themselves from such difficulties. They talk with a happy
carelessness of whether they are understood or not, and eke out the
defect of language with a sign or gesture. But there were some, there
present, to whom both tongues were familiar; and while the King of
France sat beneath the trees with Lodovico Sforza and his lovely wife,
one of the youths who had followed him might be seen at the other side
of the little grove, stretched easily on the ground between two young
girls who had accompanied the princess, and with one of whom, at
least, his acquaintance seemed of early date.

The young man was tall, well formed, and handsome; and he looked older
than he really was, for he had not yet seen more than eighteen
summers. The two girls were younger still, neither having reached the
age of fifteen years. Both gave promise of exceeding beauty--otherwise
perhaps they would have been excluded from the gay train of the
princess; but, though womanhood ripens earlier under Italian skies
than in colder climates, they were still evidently in girlhood, and,
what was more rare, they had apparently preserved all the freshness
and innocent frankness of their age.

One called the young man "Cousin Lorenzo," and teased him gaily with
criticisms of his dress and appearance; vowed he had promised to bring
back a beard from France, and yet he had not even a moustache;
declared that she abominated the hair cut short before and hanging
down behind after the French mode, and assumed that the large sleeves
of his surcoat must be made to carry provisions in, not only for
himself, but for all his company. She was the younger of the two, and
probably not yet fourteen years of age; and though there was a world
of merriment in her sparkling blue eyes, and a gay, bright smile kept
playing lightly round her lips, yet it would have been a hard critic
who could, in her, have discovered any of that coquetry from which
even her age is not exempt. On the contrary, she seemed to strive to
direct her cousin's admiration to her fair companion, who, in her
eyes, was the most beautiful and perfect creature in the universe;
and, in truth, there was many a one in after days who thought so to
his cost.

Very different in personal appearance was she from her younger
companion: tall for her age, and of that light, slender form which, in
early youth, often promises the rich, flowing contour at an after
period, which Guido loved, and even Raphael and Julio Romano did not
undervalue. She was dark in complexion, too--that is to say, her hair
was black as a raven's wing; and her full, almond-shaped eyes, with
the lashes that shaded them, and the arched eyebrows above were dark
as the hair. But yet there was something that softened all. Either it
was the flowing of the lines into each other, or the happy blending of
the tints, but nothing in the face or form was sharp or too defined.
The skin was clear, and soft, and bright--so far dark, indeed, as to
harmonize with the hair and eyes; but through the slight olive tint of
southern climes shone the clear, warm rose of health; and, over all,
youth and dawning womanhood shed their thousand inexpressible graces,
like the winged loves which, in one of Albano's pictures, flutter
round the Goddess of Beauty. She was gay, too--gay even as her
bright-eyed companion at times; but it was with sudden fits and
starts; and every now and then would intervene lapses of thought, as
if she were questioning with herself of things beyond her knowledge.
It is not rare to find that a thoughtful youth ripens into a
passionate maturity. Her dress was one common at that day, we find, in
the court of Ferrara; but it had not long been the mode in any part of
Italy; and to the eyes of the young Lorenzo, who had been nearly two
years absent from his native country, it seemed strange and hardly
decent. It consisted of a robe somewhat like that of the princess,
except that the ground of the cloth of gold, instead of green, was of
a pale delicate rose colour. The sleeves, in the young girl's case,
fitted tight to the rounded arms, but the front of each, from the
shoulder nearly to the wrist, was cut open, showing the chemise of
snowy lawn, except where, every two or three inches, a small jewel, in
the form of a button, gathered the edges of the cloth of gold
together. The robe in front also was thrown back from the neck and
bosom, which was only shaded by the profuse curls of jetty hair.
Instead of the small hat, with its plume of feathers, worn by the wife
of the regent, a veil of rich black lace, fastened at the back of the
head with a jewelled pin, thence to the shoulders; and round her waist
was a knotted cord of gold, the tassels of which, strangely twisted
and contorted, fell almost to her feet.

Such was the appearance of Leonora d'Orco at the age of fourteen, or
very little more. Of that which is beyond appearance I may have
occasion to speak hereafter.

Facts may seem trite, which nevertheless must be said in explanation
of the character he depicts by any one who writes the history of
another. We lose the key of a cabinet, nearly new, perhaps, and we
send to a vender of old iron to see if we cannot find one to fit it.
We select one and then another for trial, and find at length a key
which seems to conform to the shape of the keyhole. Would any one
object to its trial because it is old and rust-worn? Well, it is old;
it may have served in a hundred locks before, for aught we know; but
it fits, and opens, and shuts this lock, and that is all we have to do
with it.

It has often been said, and was frequently insisted upon by Goethe,
that each human being is a different being at each period of his age
from that which he was at an anterior period. The very substance of
the body, say the physiologists, is entirely changed in every seven
years. What of the mind? Do cares, and sorrows, and experience, and
joys, and hopes, and fruitions, effect no change in it? God forbid! If
we believe the mind immortal, and not subject, like the body, to death
and resurrection, still greater must be the changes; for its state
must be progressive towards evil or towards good. Expansion certainly
comes with knowledge; every day has its lesson, its reproof, its
encouragement; and the very development or decay of the mortal frame
affects the tenant within--hardens, strengthens, elevates, instructs;
or, entenders, enfeebles, depresses, depraves. Suffice it here to say,
that perhaps no one ever in life experienced greater changes of
thought, feeling, character, than Leonora d'Orco, as the winged
moments flew over her head. And yet the indestructible essence was the
same; every essential element remained; it was but the combinations
that were modified. A few years later, had you asked her if she had
ever felt such sensations, or thought such thoughts as she felt and
thought now, she would instantly have said "No;" but one moment's
lifting of the veil which hides the pictures of the past would have
shown her that she had felt, had thought such things; one moment's
scrutiny of her own heart would have shown her that, in another form,
she felt them, thought them still.

But let us regard her only in the present. See how her eye sparkles,
how her lip wreaths itself in smiles, and how the joyous laugh breaks
forth clear, and sweet, and musical, finding expression not only in
its own melodious tones, but in every feature--aye, and even in the
colour that rises in a gay bashfulness, and spreads suddenly over
cheek and brow, as if a ray of morning sunshine had found its way
through the green branches and lighted up her face. And then all is
still again--still, and quiet, and thoughtful--and her eyes bend down
and the long lashes kiss her cheek--and the rose has faded away--and
the clear skin is paler than before, till something from one or the
other of her gay companions awakens merriment again, and then she
changes once more with the sudden change of mountain skies.

But see! they are talking of more serious matters now.

"Not enter Milan!" cries Leonora; "not enter beautiful Milan! Signor
Lorenzo, how is that? Have you lost all love and pride in your own
fair country?"

"I must not enter Milan," he answered with a sigh; "but if I might,
Leonora, I could not."

"But why--why?" she asked eagerly; "are you one of the exiles? Oh, if
that is so, the princess loves me well, and besides, when you come
with the King of France, a guest of Count Ludovic, the past must be
forgotten in the present, and you be welcomed too. Oh, do not say you
will not come."

She spoke eagerly, and then cast down her eyes, for his met hers with
a look too full of admiration to be mistaken.

"Do not ask him--do not ask him," said sweet Bianca Maria di Rovera;
"he is going to my grandfather's villa till the king marches on. That
is already settled, Leonora."

"And you never told me, when your grandfather engaged us to go there
too," said Leonora; "but how will the King of France be pleased?"

"He has given permission," answered Lorenzo; "he understands well that
the son of Carlo Visconti could only enter Milan in one manner."

The young girl bent her head, and only answered, in a low tone, "I
would fain hear more. It seems to me a strange arrangement."

"You shall hear all, at some other time and place, Signora Leonora,"
replied Lorenzo: "every minute I expect the trumpets to sound to
horse; and my tale, which is a sad one, should have some quiet spot
for the telling, and evening skies, and few listeners near."

The listeners, indeed, were, or might be, too many in a place where
all was suspicion and much was danger. Every instant some one was
passing near them--either one of the pastoral gentry who had waited
for the meeting of the two courts, or some one from the suites of the
two princes.

The latter part of the lad's reply seemed at once to awaken Leonora to
the necessity of caution. Her younger companion, indeed, who seemed
ignorant of her cousin's early history, pressed him with girlish
eagerness to tell all then and there; but the other, who even then
knew more of Italian life--not without an effort, yet with much
delicacy of judgment and feeling--directed their conversation into
other channels, and soon brought back the gaiety and the sparkle which
at that time was cultivated almost as an art by the higher classes of
Italy. Speedily thought, and sentiment, and mood followed the course
of even such light things as words: serious topics and dark
remembrances, and even present dangers and discomforts, were
forgotten;--and, as if in order to give relief to the lights in the
future of life some dark shades were needed--the young three there
gathered appeared to find in the faint allusion made to more painful
things an accession of gaiety and enjoyment. The strangeness of first
acquaintance was cast away between the two who had never met before.
Bianca Maria, or Blanche Marie, as the French would have termed her,
forgot how long a time had passed since she had seen her cousin, and
all for the time was once more joy and light-hearted merriment. The
same spirit _seemed_ to pervade the whole party there assembled. It is
hard to say _seemed_, for any eye that gazed upon that scene would
have boldly concluded that all was peace and joy.

Oh, false word! Oh, false seeming! There was doubt, and fear, and
malevolence, and treachery there in many a heart; and of all the
groups into which those two gay courts had separated themselves,
perhaps reality, and enjoyment, and careless mirth were more truly to
be found among those three young people, who, forgetful of courtly
ceremony, had taken their seats beneath the trees on the west of the
knoll, with their backs turned toward the royal and princely
personages present. They, at least, knew how to enjoy the hour; and
there let us leave them, with the benediction and applause of Lorenzo
the Magnificent upon them:

   "Quant' e bella giovinezza
       Che si fugge tuttavia
       Chi vuol esser lietto, sia
   Di doman non c'e certezza."




CHAPTER III.


If the world be a stage, as the greatest of earth's poets has said,
and all the men and women in it merely players, human life divides
itself not only into acts, but scenes. The drop curtain falls for a
longer or a shorter period; and, without whistle or call, the place is
shifted, and the interval is filled up with nought which affects the
actors before the public, or the general course of their own parts, or
the end of the great drama played. Let us pass over the mere shiftings
of the scene; the pompous reception of Charles VIII. in Milan; the
time he wasted there in youthful merriment and courtly gallantry; the
intrigues ending in nothing which went on during his stay in the
Lombard capital; all the French _gaietè de coeur_ with which the
dashing and daring warriors of the most charming land in the world cut
a throat, or make love, or stake a fortune on a card--let us pass them
all by, with the exception of one slight incident, which had some
influence upon the fate of one of our principal characters.

It is very customary--indeed, it is always customary with men
of impulse, especially when the impulses are impetuous and
ill-regulated--for persons possessing great power to be awed, as it
were, for a short time by the terrible responsibilities of their
position--to seek uninterrupted thought, with an endeavour in their
own mind to find support under the weight from their own intellect,
or, frustrated in their dependence upon so frail a reed, to apply to a
higher guide, who can give not only direction but strength--not only
counsel but capability. There is many an occasion in which the most
self-relying and resolute feels the need of an intelligence higher
than his own, and a force beyond the force of his own character.

In many respects the character of Charles VIII. was to be admired. His
expedition to Italy was rash, ill-conceived, and ill-executed; but the
conception was great, the objects when rightly viewed, noble, and the
result, though not fortunate, such as showed in the young king the
higher qualities of fortitude, resolution, and that courage which
crushes obstacles by boldly confronting them. But many a time Charles
doubted of his own course--only, indeed, in times of success and
seeming prosperity--and asking himself whether that course was right,
was prudent, was wise, sought guidance and instruction from on high.

On these occasions he avoided all companionship, and asked direction
from the throne of wisdom in solitary prayer. It was thus he came
forth in the early morning to the Church of St. Stephen, attended only
by a single page, and habited plainly enough to attract no attention.
He had entered the chapel of St. Ambrose, the patron saint of the
city, and was in the very act of kneeling, when the voices of two
other men, speaking somewhat loud in the general stillness, attracted
his attention.

"Ah!" said the one, "it was there he slew him, and had there been men
to second him, Lombardy would have now been free."

"It goes about the city," said the other, "that young Lorenzo, his
son, is close at the gates of Milan, ready to avenge his father's
death upon the Sforzeschi."

"He had better look to his own safety," replied the first speaker,
"for he has to do with powerful enemies, and what the strong hand and
the sword cannot accomplish, the dagger or the cup can perchance
perform."

The king listened, but nothing more of interest met his ear, and when
his prayer was finished he returned to his private cabinet, and wrote
a few words in haste, without consulting even his most approved
counsellors. It was done; and then he rang a little hand-bell on the
table. It was not like a modern bell, being four-sided, but it had a
good, loud sound, and it immediately brought an attendant from the
ante-room.

"Call hither the Baron de Vitry," said the king. He spoke of that De
Vitry who was the ancestor of the well-known Marechal de Vitry, and
who, a few days after, became Marquis de Vitry on the death of his
father. "Tell him to be quick, for he sleeps late when there is no
fighting to be done."

The man hastened away to execute his commands, but it was some twenty
minutes before the officer summoned appeared, and then, to say sooth,
he was but imperfectly apparelled. There was a point here and there
untrussed, and his collar was certainly not placed in its usual and
intended position--indeed, some severe critics of costume might have
supposed that it was turned wrong side before.

"Always behind, De Vitry," said the monarch, who had grown impatient
in waiting.

"I was not behind at St. Aubin, sire," replied the young officer with
a gay confidence; "but, sire, we were bound to sit up so late last
night for the honour of France that our eyes had leaden weights upon
them this morning."

"Ay, a revel, of course," said the king; "too much revelling, De
Vitry. We must think of more serious things."

"Good faith! sire, we are all ready," replied the young officer; "we
only revel because we have nought else to do. While your majesty and
your wise counsellors are gravely deliberating in the cabinet, we have
nought else to do but dance, and drink, and sing in the hall; and I am
sure you, sire, would not have us behind the Italian in dancing and
drinking, when they go so far before us in singing; but only give us
something else to do, and we are ready to ride, or fight, or work in
any way tomorrow."

The young king mused for a moment, and then murmured the words, "A
just reproof!" Then taking the paper he had written, he added, "Take a
hundred men of your company of ordnance, De Vitry, and set out at once
toward Vigevano. Five miles on this side of the town, on the bank of
the Ticino, you will find a villa belonging to the Count of Rovera.
There you will find young Lorenzo Visconti. Give him that paper,
appointing him to the command of the troop of poor young Moustier, who
was stabbed, no one knows why or how."

"Oh, sire, I know why, and how too," answered De Vitry, in his usual
gay, light-hearted tone; "he was stabbed because he chose to make
love to the daughter of the confectioner who lives just below the
castle--she is, indeed, a wonderful little beauty; but she is
betrothed to a young armourer, and Moustier was not right to seek her
for his leman, under her promised husband's very nose. There are
plenty of free-hearted dames in Milan, without his breaking up the
happiness of two young people who never sought him. Then, as to the
way, sire, that is very easily explained---a dark corner, a strong
hand, and a sharp dagger over the left shoulder, and the thing was
soon accomplished. Ludovic says he will have the young armourer broken
on the wheel, to satisfy your majesty; but I trust you will tell him
not; for, in the first place, nothing can be proved against him; and,
in the next, according to his own notions, he did nothing but what was
right; and, in the next, De Moustier was all in the wrong; and, in the
next, this youth, Tomaso Bondi, is the best armourer in Italy--no man
I ever saw can inlay a Milan corslet as he can."

"All very cogent reasons," answered the king, "and the regent shall do
nought to him, to satisfy me. De Moustier forgot the warning I gave
him after I was ill at Lyons, when he insulted the young wife of the
dean of the weavers; and as he has sought his fate, so he must abide
it. But, as I have said, seek out my young Cousin Lorenzo, give him
the paper, and tell him to join you next day at Pavia or Vigevano; but
do not let your men dismount, and take care that they commit no
outrage on the lands of Signor Rovera. At Vigevano you may halt till
you hear that I am on my way to Pavia. You shall have timely notice."

The officer took the open paper from the king's hand, and in a
nonchalant way gazed at the contents, exclaiming as he did so, "On my
faith, it is fairly written!"

The cheek of Charles turned somewhat red, and, fixing his eye keenly
upon De Vitry, he said, "You mean no offence, young sir, I believe;
but, Baron de Vitry, I tell you, if two years ago your king could not
write his name, it was not his fault. Would that all my nobility would
try to retrieve their errors as I have striven to remedy the defects
of my education."

The young monarch was evidently much pained at what he thought an
allusion to the ignorance in which he had been brought up; and De
Vitry, whose thoughts were perfectly innocent of such offence, bent
his knee and kissed his sovereign's hand, saying, in his frank way,
"On my life, sire, I only admired the writing, and wished I were as
good a clerk. Heaven knows that, though I can write fast enough, no
man can read as fast what I have written. It has cost me many a time
more James, than an hour to make out my own letters. This carrying a
confounded lance, ever since I was eighteen, makes my finger unfit for
handling a quill; and, unless I fall in love, and have to write sweet
letters to fair ladies--which God forfend--I dare say the time will
come when I shall be unable to write at all."

The king smiled good-humouredly at his blunt officer, for Charles's
anger soon passed away, and, bidding him rise, he said, "There, go, De
Vitry; you are a rough specimen of our French soldiers, for these
silken ladies of the South. I fear you will not make much way with
them."

"Oh, they love me all the better, sire," answered De Vitry; "I'm a new
dish at their table. But I go to perform your will, sire; and, good
faith! I am not sorry to be in the saddle again. But what am I to do
with that young fellow, Bayard, who struck the big Ferrara man for
calling us barbarians? We have kept a close eye upon him, for he seems
never to dream that, if the signor were to meet him alone, he would
put a dagger in him, or break his back as a storm breaks a hard young
sapling. Good faith, sire, the man would eat the boy up as the old
giants used to do with the princes and princesses of I don't know
where in days of yore."

"That is well bethought," replied the king. "I wish to have no
brawling, De Vitry. Take Bayard with you to Pavia. Stay! let me
consider what I can do to smooth his removal from the court, for he is
a brave lad, and will some time make a name in life. They are hardy
soldiers, these men of the Isere."

"He is of such stuff as kings of France have most need of," answered
De Vitry. "Give him ten years more, and I would match him against
Mohammed. But the cornet of my troop, you know, sire, died on Friday
last of wine poison at Beccafico's--we hold our life on slender tenure
in this land--and if your majesty would please to name Bayard to fill
his place, he would be very well content, for he loves Bellona's
harness more than Cupid's, as my old tutor, the Abbé de Mortemar, used
to say when he could not get me to construe Ovid. But I know not how
Bayard may take Signor Lorenzo's appointment to De Moustier's troop,
he being also one of your pages, and more than a year older."

"Lorenzo Visconti is our cousin, sir," replied Charles, somewhat
sternly; "and, were he not so, we suffer no one to comment on our will
in ordaining how we shall be served. If Pierre de Terrail hesitates at
the honour we confer on him so young, because we name our own kindred
to a higher command at a younger age, let him remain as he is. We will
not resent such conduct, but we will make him feel that we are King of
France."

There was sufficient irritation in his tone to induce the young
officer to withdraw; and he left the king's presence, repeating to
himself, "Our cousin! I see not how that is; but we are all cousins in
Adam, God wot; and the affinity must be somewhere thereabout, I take
it. Well, God send me some royal cousins, or right noble ones, for
'tis the only road to promotion in this world."




CHAPTER IV.


It was early in the month of September. The grapes were already purple
with the draughts of sunshine which they had drunk in through a long,
ardent summer, and the trees had already begun to display "the sear
and yellow leaf"--early, early, like those who exhaust in life's young
day all the allotted pleasures of man's little space. The autumn had
fallen upon them soon. Yet it was a lovely scene, as you gazed from
one of those little monticules which stud the Lombard plains. There is
something in the descent from the mountains into Italy which seems to
anticipate the land--not so much in its physical as in its moral
features; a softness, a gentleness, a gracefulness which is all its
own, while round about, unseen, but felt in every breeze, is the dark,
pestilential swamp, gloomy and despairing, or else a brighter but more
treacherous land, fair to the eye, but destructive to vitality, which
lures but to destroy. One easily conceives the character of a large
portion of the people of the middle ages in Italy from the aspect of
the land. But it is of the people of the middle ages only. One can
hardly derive any notion of the ancient Roman from the characteristics
of the country till one plunges into the Campagna, where the stern,
hard features of the scenery seem to represent that force which, alas!
has passed away.

And yet it was a lovely scene, and a moment of sweet and calm
enjoyment, as three young people sat together on the lower step of a
terrace near Vigevano, with a fountain gushing and murmuring some
twenty feet above, and a beautiful garden filled with mulberry-trees
and vines, and some oranges, not very luxuriant, but diffusing a
pleasant but languid odour round. The eye wandered over the shrubs and
trees to the lands watered by the Ticino on its way to Pavia; and
beyond, in the evening light, long lines of undulating country were
marked out in the deep blue tints peculiar to the distant scenery of
Italy. The terrace, below which the three were seated, was long and
wide, and rising therefrom, near the centre, was one face of a villa,
built in a style of which few specimens remain. The taste and genius
of Palladio had not yet given to the villa-architecture of Lombardy
that lightness and grace which formed the characteristic of a
new style of art. There was something, at that time, in every
country-house of Italy of the heavy, massive repulsiveness of the old
castello. But yet the dawn of a better epoch was apparent, in the
works of Andrea Palladio's great master, Trissino; and in the very
villa of which I speak, though here and there a strong, tall tower was
apparent, and the basement story contained stone enough to have built
a score of modern houses, much ornament of a light and graceful
character had been lavished upon the whole building, as if to conceal
that it was constructed for defence as well as enjoyment. Indeed, as
is generally the case, there was a certain harmony between the times
and state of society and the constructions of the period. The Italian
smiled, and revelled, and feasted, and called in music, and song, and
poetry, to cover over the dangers, and the griefs, and the terrors of
every day; and the palace in the city, or the villa in the country,
was often as richly decorated as if its massy inner walls were never
intended to preserve the life and fortune of its owner from the hands
of rude assailants, nor its halls ever to witness deeds of horror and
cruelty within their dark recesses.

It was, indeed, an evening and a scene such as Lorenzo Visconti had
described as fitted for the telling of his own history. All was still
and quiet around; the leaves of the vines hardly moved with the light
air, the glow of the western sky faded off into deep purple as the eye
was raised from the horizon to the zenith; no moving object--no, not a
floating cloud, could be seen on any side; and the murmur of the
fountain seemed to add to, rather than detract from, the stillness.
The three young people--I need not tell the reader who they were---had
ranged themselves as their nature or their temporary feelings
prompted. On the lowest step Bianca Maria had placed herself, looking
up with her sweet confiding eyes towards the young companion whom she
almost idolized. On the step above was her cousin Lorenzo; and on a
step above them both, but leaning with her elbow on her knee, and her
cheek resting on her hand, a little to the right of Lorenzo and the
left of Bianca, was Leonora d'Orco, with her dark eyes bent down,
drinking in the words of the young soldier.

It was a group such as Bronzino might have delighted to paint; for not
only were there those colours in it which all Italians love, and all
Italian artists take pleasure in blending and harmonizing--the deep
browns, which characterise the complexion of their country, with the
rarer and exceptional fairness sometimes found among them---the
flowing flaxen hair of the North, and its rich crimsons, but in the
dress of the three also there were those strong contrasts of
harmonious hues, if I may use what may seem at first sight (but only
at first sight) a contradiction in terms--the rich red, and the deep
green, and the yellow touching upon brown, and the pale blue. How
charming, how satisfactory was the art of those old painters in
reproducing on the canvas the combinations which nature produces every
day. And yet Art, following Nature in its infinite variety, has shown
us, in the works of Murillo and some other Spanish artists, that
perfect harmony of colouring can afford as much pleasure as harmonized
contrasts, and that in painting also there may be Mozarts as well as
Beethovens.

The evening light fell beautifully upon that young group, as they sat
there on the steps of the terrace, and, just glancing round the angle
of an old ruined building of Roman date in the gardens below, touched
gently and sweetly upon the brow and eyes of Bianca Maria, lighted up
the face of Lorenzo, and shone full upon the whole figure of Leonora,
as she gazed down upon the speaker.

"I must go back far into the times past," he said; "I dare say you are
well aware that the Viscontis once reigned as lords and dukes of
Milan. Do not suppose, Leonora, that I am about to put forth any claim
to that rich inheritance; for, though nearly allied to the ruling
race, my branch of the family were already separated from the parent
stem when the imperial bull was issued which conferred sovereignty on
the branch that ended with Filippo Maria. That bull limited the
succession strictly, and we had and have no claim. At the death of
Filippo, the Milanese found still one spark of ancient spirit, and
they declared themselves a republic. But republics have in them,
unhappily, no seeds of durability. There is not strength and virtue
enough in man to give them permanence. Rude nations may be strong and
resolute enough to maintain such institutions in their youth; but art
and luxury soften, and in softening enfeeble, so that men learn to
love ease more than independence, pleasure better than freedom. A new
dynasty was destined soon to succeed the old. The Viscontis were
noble, of high race and long descent, connected with every sovereign
house of Europe. But the son of a peasant was to gather their
inheritance and wear their coronet.

"There was a man born at Cotignola, in Romagna, named Sforza
Attendolo, of very humble birth, but prodigious strength of body and
extraordinary military genius. Famine drove him to seek food in the
trade of war. He joined one of the great companies, rose by the force
of genius and courage, and in the end became one of the two most
famous condottieri in Italy. After a career of almost unexampled glory
and success, he was drowned in swimming the Pescara, but his son
Francesco succeeded to his command, and to more than his inheritance
of military fame. He was, indeed, a great man; and so powerful did he
become, that Filippo Maria Visconti promised him---to the illegitimate
son of a Romagnese peasant--the hand of his only daughter to secure
his services in his many wars. He hesitated long, it is true, to
fulfil a promise which he felt to be degrading, but he was compelled
to submit at length. With the aid of Francesco Sforza he was a great
prince--without him he was nothing; and when he died, old and blind,
he left his people to struggle against the man whom he had aided to
raise, but upon whom his own fate had very often depended. Francesco
was noble at heart, though ambitious. His enemies he often treated
with unexampled generosity, forbearance, and even kindness. He showed
that he feared no man, by freeing the most powerful and most skilful
of his captive enemies; but he pursued his course steadily toward
dominion, not altogether unstained by deceit and falsehood, but
without cruelty or tyranny. Sore pressed by famine, and with his
armies beneath their walls, the Milanese, who recognised his high
qualities, though they feared his dominion, threw open their gates to
him, and renounced their liberty at the feet of a new duke in
February, 1450. The Viscontis had nothing to complain of. The reigning
branch was extinct; the rest were not named in the imperial bull, and
they, with their fellow-citizens, submitted calmly of the rule of the
greatest man then living in Italy. Nor had they cause to regret the
act during the life of Francesco Sforza. He ruled the land justly and
moderately, maintained his own renown to the last, and showed none of
the jealousy of a tyrant towards those whose birth, or fortune, or
talents might have made them formidable rivals. He was wise to
conciliate affection in support of power. His good reign of sixteen
years did more to enslave the Milanese people than the iron heel of
any despot could have done; but there were not wanting those among his
children to take cruel advantage of that which his virtues had
accomplished. He died about thirty years ago, and to him succeeded his
eldest son, the monster Galeazzo. From that hour the iron yoke pressed
upon the neck of the Milanese. The new duke had less ambition than his
father, and inherited none of his talents; but he had a genius for
cruelty, and an energy in crime unequalled even by Eccelino. Those
whom he seemed most to favour and who least feared the tyrant's blow,
were always those on whom it fell most heavily and most suddenly; and
they furnished, when they little expected it, fresh victims for the
torture, or for some new and unheard-of kind of death. His luxury and
his licentiousness passed all bounds; no family was safe; no lady's
honour was unassailed or uncalumniated; violence was resorted to when
corruption did not succeed; in each day he comprised the crimes of a
Tarquin and the ferocity of a Nero. There were, however, three noble
hearts in Milan, and they fancied there were many more. They dreamed
that some public spirit still lingered among their countrymen--at
least enough, when delivered from actual fear of the tyrant, to seize
the opportunity and regain their liberty. When there is no law, men
must execute justice as they can; and those three resolved to put
Galeazzo to death--a mild punishment for a life of crime. Their names
were Olgiati, Lampugnani, and Carlo Visconti. All had suffered from
the tyrant. Olgiati's sister had fallen a victim to his violence.
Lampugnani's wife was another. My mother only escaped by death. But it
was not vengeance that moved the patriots. They had only suffered what
others had suffered. The evils of the country had become intolerable;
they were all the work of one man; and the three determined to deprive
him of the power to inflict more. They looked upon their undertaking
not only as a great and glorious enterprise, but as a religious duty,
and they prepared themselves for its execution with prayer and
fasting, and the most solemn sacrament of the Church. Many
difficulties intervened. Either the consciousness that his tyranny and
crimes had become intolerable, or one of those strange presentiments
of coming fate which have affected many men as the hour of their
destiny drew nigh, rendered Galeazzo less accessible, more suspicious
and retired than before. He seldom came forth from his palace, was no
longer seen on occasions of public ceremony, or in fêtes and
festivals. There was, indeed, one day when he could hardly fail to
show himself, and that was on St. Stephen's day--a day when, by
immemorial custom, every one honours the first martyr by attending
mass at the great church. That day they fixed upon for the execution
of their design, and each was early in the church, with a dagger
hidden in the sleeve of his gown. The world has called it a sacrilege;
but they looked upon it as a holy and a righteous deed, sanctified by
the justice of the cause, that the most sacred place could not be
polluted by it.

"In the mean time Galeazzo seemed to feel that the day and hour of
retribution had arrived. He would fain have avoided it; he sought to
have mass performed in the palace; he applied to a chaplain--to the
Bishop of Como--but in all instances slight obstacles presented
themselves, and in the end he determined to go to the Cathedral. One
touch of human tenderness and feeling, the first for many a day, broke
from him. He sent for his two children, took leave of them tenderly,
and embraced them again and again. He then went forth; but the
conspirators awaited him in the church; and hardly had he entered when
three daggers were plunged into his breast and back. Each struck a
second blow; and the monster who had inflicted torture, and death, and
disgrace upon so many innocent fellow-creatures sank to the pavement,
exclaiming, 'Sancta Maria!'

"The three then rushed towards the street to call the people to arms;
but Lampugnani stumbled, catching his feet in the long trains of the
women who were already kneeling in the nave. As he fell he was killed
by a Moor, one of Galeazzo's base retainers. My father was killed
where he stood, and Olgiato escaped into the street only to find the
people, on whom he trusted either dead to all sense of patriotism and
justice, or stupified and surprised. Not a sword was drawn--not a hand
was raised in answer to his cry, 'To arms!' and torture and the death
of a criminal once more closed the career of a patriot.

"I was an infant at that time, but in the days of Galeazzo Sforza
infants were not spared, and the nurse who had me in her arms hurried
forth, carrying me with her, ere the gates of the city could be
closed, or the followers of the duke came to search and pillage our
house. She took refuge in a neighbouring village, whence we were not
long after carried to Florence, where the noble Lorenzo de Medici,
after whom I had been baptized, received me as his child, and when he
felt death approaching, sent me to the court of France to finish my
education among my relatives there."

"And was this Prince Ludovic the son of Galeazzo?" asked Leonora, as
soon as he had paused.

"Oh no--his younger brother," replied Lorenzo. "He holds the son in
durance, and the son's wife, on the pretence of guardianship, though
both are of full age; but, if I be not mistaken, the day of their
deliverance is near at hand, for I have heard the king say he will
certainly see them, and learn whether they are not fitted to rule
their own duchy without the interference of so dangerous a relation."

"God grant the king may be in time," said Bianca Maria; "for it is
said the young duke is very sick, and people say he has poison in all
he eats."

"Hush! hush!" cried Leonora, anxiously. "Long confinement and wearing
care are enough to make him sick, Bianca, without a grain of poison.
No one can die now-a-days without people saying he is poisoned. 'Tis a
sad tale, indeed, you tell, Lorenzo, and I have often heard our sweet
Princess of Ferrara say that Galeazzo was a bad man; but Ludovic
surely is not cruel. He has pardoned many a man, I have heard, who had
been condemned by the tribunals."

A somewhat bitter smile came upon the lips of Lorenzo Visconti, but he
merely replied, "The good and innocent always think others good and
innocent till bitter experience teaches them the contrary."

Perhaps he might have added more, but the sound of footsteps on the
terrace above caught his ear, and he and Leonora at once turned to see
who approached. The steps were slow and deliberate, and were not
directed toward the spot where the young people sat; but they
instantly checked further conversation on the subjects previously
discussed, while from time to time each of the three gave a glance
toward two gentlemen who had just appeared upon the terrace. The one
was a man somewhat advanced in years, though not exactly what might be
called an old man. His hair and beard were very gray, it is true, but
his frame was not bent, and his step was still firm and stately. He
was richly dressed, and wore a large, heavy sword, of a somewhat
antique fashion. Lorenzo asked no questions concerning him, for he
knew him already as the grandfather of his young cousin, Bianca Maria.
The other was a younger man, dressed in black velvet, except where the
arms were seen from under the long hanging sleeves of his upper
garment, showing part of an under coat of cloth of silver. He was tall
and thin, and his face would have deserved the name of handsome had it
not been that the eyes, which were fine in themselves, and
overshadowed by strongly-marked eyebrows, were too close together, and
had a slight obliquity inward. It was not what could be absolutely
called a squint, but it gave a sinister expression to his countenance,
which was not relieved by a habit of keeping his teeth and lips
closely compressed, as if holding a rigid guard over what the tongue
might be inclined to utter.

They took their way to the extreme end of the terrace, and then walked
back till they came on a line with the spot where the three young
people sat, still silent, for there is a freemasonry in youth that
loves not to have even its most trifling secrets laid bare to other
eyes, or its most innocent councils broken in upon.

There the two gentlemen paused, and the younger seemed to end some
conversation which had been passing between them by saying, "I know
not much, Signor Rovera, of the history or views of other times, or
for what men lived and strove for in those days; but I do know, and
pretty well, the history of my own times, and the rules by which we
have to guide ourselves in them. If we have not ourselves power, we
must serve those who have power; and while we keep ourselves from what
you would call an evil will on our own part, we must not be over nice
in executing the will of those above us. Theirs is the deed, and
theirs the responsibility. The race of Sforza is not, methinks, a
higher or a better race than the race of Borgia. Both are peasants
compared to you or me, but the Borgias are rising, and destined to
rise high above us both; the Sforzas have risen, and are about to
fall, or I mistake the signs of the times. Men may play with a kitten
more safely than with a lion; and when Ludovico called this King of
France into Italy, he put his head in the wild beast's mouth."

"Ah, that that were all!" exclaimed the old Count of Rovera. "I should
little care to see that wild beast close his heavy jaws upon the skull
of his inviter, if that would satisfy him; but Italy--what is to
become of Italy?"

"God knows," answered the other drily. "She has taken so little care
of her children, that, good faith! they must take care of themselves
and let her do the same, my noble cousin. We are both too old to lose
much by her fall, and neither of us young enough to hope to see her
rise. Phoenixes are rare in these days, Signor Count. There," he
continued, pointing to the little group upon the steps, "there are
the only things that are likely to spring up, except corn, and
mulberry-trees, and such vegetables. Why, how the girl has grown
already! She is well-nigh a woman. She will need a husband soon, and
then baby-clothes, and so forth. I must speak with her. Leonora!
Leonora!"

At the sound of his voice, Leonora, who had been sitting with her head
bent down and her eyes fixed upon the marble at her feet, sprang up
like a startled deer, and ran up the steps toward him; but when within
a step, she paused, and bent before him without speaking.




CHAPTER V.


"Who is that man?" asked Lorenzo Visconti in a low tone, while Leonora
stood before the stranger, silent and, as it were, subdued.

"That is her father, Ramiro d'Orco," answered Bianca Maria; "he has
just returned from Romagna, I suppose; he has not been here for a
year, and I heard he was there."

"Her father!" exclaimed the youth; "and is it so a child meets a
father? Oh God! had I a parent living who came back from a long
absence, how I should spring to receive his first caress! how the
first tone of his voice--the first sound of his footstep, would move
the whole blood within me. I do believe the very proximity of his
spirit would make my whole frame thrill, and I should know that he was
present before one of my senses assured me of the fact. My father! oh,
my father! could you rejoin your son, should I meet you as a stranger,
or bow before you as a ruler?"

"It is not her fault, Lorenzo," said her cousin, eagerly, zealous in
her friend's cause; "I do not know how to tell you what he is,
Lorenzo. He is hard, yet not tyrannical; cold, yet not without
affection. There is no tenderness in him, yet he loves her better than
aught else on earth, except, I have heard my grandfather say, except
ambition. He is liberal to her, allowing her all she wants or wishes,
except, indeed, his tenderness and care. You and I are both orphans,
Lorenzo, and perhaps we let our fancy lead us to picture exaggerated
joy in the love and affection of parents."

"I love him not, Bianca," answered the young man, with a slight
shudder; "there is something in his look which seems to chill the
blood in one's heart. I can see in that gaze which he bends upon her,
why it is her arms are not thrown round his neck, why her lips are not
pressed to his, why words of love and affection are not poured forth
upon her father when she meets him after a long absence. She is his
child, but he is not a father to her--perhaps a tyrant."

"Oh, no, no!" answered the young girl; "he loves her--indeed he does,
and he does not tyrannize over her. But whether it is that there is a
natural coldness in his manner, or that he affects a certain Roman
hardness, I cannot tell; he only shows his love in indulging her in
everything she desires, without a tender look or tender word, such as
most fond fathers bestow upon a well-loved child."

"And such a child!" said Lorenzo, musing. "Well, it is strange,
Bianca; perhaps he may love her truly, and more than many fathers whom
I have seen in France fondle their children as if their whole soul was
wrapped up in them, and then sacrifice their happiness to the merest
caprice--perhaps it may be so, and yet I do not like his looks. I
cannot like him. See how he gazes at us now! It is the gaze of a
serpent, cold, and hard, and stony. Who was her mother? She can have
gained no part of her nature from him."

"Oh, no," cried the young girl, feeling all that he felt, though
unwilling to allow it; "she is like him in nothing, except, indeed,
the forehead and the shape of her face. Her mother was almost as
beautiful as she is. I remember well; it is not three years since she
died. She was a great heiress in the Ghiaradda. All she had was on her
marriage secured by the forms of law to herself and her children, and
they say he strove almost cruelly to make her give it up to him. After
her death he obtained possession of it, but not entirely for himself.
It was decided that he should possess it till Leonora married, making
suitable provision for her maintenance, but that, when she married,
the great estates at Castellano should go to her and her husband. My
grandfather, who was her mother's uncle, took much interest in the
matter, and for a time he and Signor d'Orco were at bitter enmity; but
when the case was decided, and it was found that Leonora's father
assigned her more for her portion than the law would have demanded, my
grandfather became convinced that he had striven only for what he
conceived a right, and became reconciled to him. Indeed, he is quite
liberal in all things concerning her; allows her the revenue of a
princess, and is himself a man of small expense; but it seems
his is an unbending nature. He lets her do what she wills in most
things--seldom thwarts her; but when he speaks his own will, there is
no appeal from it--neither to his heart nor his mind. I can often
persuade my grandfather, though he is quick and hasty, as you know,
and sometimes convince him, but it is of no use to try to do either
with Ramiro d'Orco."

Lorenzo fancied he comprehended, at least in a degree, the character
which, in her youthful way, she strove to depict; but yet there was
something in the look of Leonora's father which left a dark,
unpleasant impression upon his mind. There are faces that we love not,
but which afford no apparent reason for the antipathy they produce.
There is often even beauty which we cannot admire--grace which affords
no pleasure. There is, perhaps, nothing more graceful upon earth than
the gliding of a snake, never for a moment quitting what the great
moral painter called "the line of beauty." There is nothing more rich
and resplendent than his jewelled skin, and yet how few men can gaze
upon the most gorgeous of that reptile race without a shuddering
sensation of its enmity to man? Can it be that in the breast of the
reasoning human creature, God, for a farther security than mere
intellect against a being that is likely to injure, implants an
instinct of approaching danger which no fairness of form, no
engagingness of manner can at first compensate? It may be so. At all
events, I have seen instances where something very like it was
apparent. And yet, with time, the impression wears away; the spirit
has spoken once its word of warning; if that word is not enough, it
never speaks again. The snake has the power of fascinating the bird
which, in the beginning, strove to escape from him; and we forget the
monitor which told us our danger.

In an hour from that time Lorenzo was sitting at the same table with
Ramiro d'Orco, listening well pleased to searching and deep views of
the state of Italy, expressed, not indeed with eloquence, for he was
not an eloquent man, but with a force and point he had seldom heard
equalled.

It would not be easy to give his words, for, even were they recorded,
they would lose their strength in the translation; but the substance
we know, and it would give a very different picture of Italy in that
day from any that can be drawn at present. We see it not alone dimmed
by the distance of time, but in a haze of our own prejudices. We may
gather, perhaps, the great results; but we can, I believe, in no
degree divine the motives, and most of the details are lost. Read the
history of any one single man in those days, as portrayed by modern
writers, and compare one author with another. Take for instance that
of Lorenzo de Medici, as carefully drawn by Roscoe, or brightly
sketched by Sismondi. What can be more different? The facts, indeed,
are the same, but how opposite are all the inferences. In both we have
the dry bones of the man, but the form of the muscle, and the hue of
the complexion are entirely at variance. Writers who undertake to
represent the things of a past age are like a painter required to
furnish portraits of persons long dead. Tradition may give them some
guidance as to the general outline, but the features and the colouring
will be their own.

It is therefore with the great facts of the state of Italy at that
time that I will deal, as nearly in the view of Ramiro d'Orco as I
can; but it must be remembered that his view also was not without its
mistiness. If we cannot see early on account of the remoteness of the
objects which we contemplate, his vision also was indistinct, obscured
by the prejudices of class, interest, party, hope, apprehension, and
above all, ambition. He painted the condition of Italy only as Ramiro
d'Orco believed it to be. How much even of that belief was to be
ascribed to his own desires and objects, who can say?

Lombardy, the great northern portion of Italy, indeed, had ever been
isolated from the rest in manners and habits of thought. Italians the
Lombards certainly were; but the characteristics of the northern
conquerors predominated in that portion of the peninsula. Except at
Genoa and in Venice, republicanism in no shape had taken any deep
root. From very early times, although the voice of the people had
occasionally proclaimed a republic here and there, the babe was
strangled ere it got strength, even by those that gave it birth. The
epoch of democratic independence in Lombardy lasted barely a century
and a half. No republic flourished long north of the River Po, except
those I have named, and even the two which took some glory from the
name little deserved it. Less real liberty was known in Venice than
perhaps existed under the most grinding tyranny of a single man; and
Genoa, in her most palmy days, was a prey to aristocratic factions,
which soon made the people but slaves to princes. But it must not be
supposed that nothing was obtained in return: a more chivalrous and
warlike spirit existed in that division of Italy than in the central
portion. It was not so early refined, but it was not so speedily
softened. Corrupt it might be, and indeed was, to even a fearful
degree; but it was the corruption of the hard and the daring, rather
than of the weak and effeminate. Men poisoned, and slew, and tortured
each other, and the minds of all became so familiar with blood and
horror, that much was endured before resistance to oppression was
excited; but conspiracies were generally successful in their primary
object, because the conspirators were bold and resolute. A tyrant
might fall only to give place to another tyrant, but still he fell;
and you rarely saw in Lombardy such weakness as was displayed in the
enterprise of the Pazzi.

Men in the north fought openly in the field for counties, and
marquisates, and dukedoms; but there was little finesse or diplomatic
skill displayed except by Venice. There was cunning, indeed, but it
was always exercised to gain some military advantage. The ambition of
that part of the land was warlike, not peaceful. It was not luxury,
and ease, and graceful enjoyment that was desired in combination with
power, but it was splendour, and pomp, and domination. Weak tyrants
were sure to fall; merely cruel ones generally retained their power;
and cunning ones were frequently successful; but it was only by
wielding the sword, either by their own hands or those of others.

At the time in which Ramiro d'Orco spoke, every vestige of liberty was
extinct in Lombardy. The Visconti, and after them the Sforzi, in
Milan; the house of Della Scala, and after them the Visconti, in
Verona; the Gonzagas in Mantua; the D'Estes in Ferrara; the Carraras
in Padua; the Bentivogli in Bologna, and a hundred other princely
houses, had attained power by both policy and the sword, and Genoa had
passed frequently from anarchy to subjection, and subjection to
anarchy. But the great military school of Alberic de Barbiano had
raised up a vigorous and healthy spirit in the people, which, had it
lasted, would have secured to both Romagna and Lombardy strength to
resist foreign enemies, even if it could not control intestine
divisions. But the great company of St. George, founded by Barbiano,
was succeeded by two others, who, though they possessed all the energy
of their predecessors, and were led by men of very superior abilities,
were merely the companies of adventurous soldiers known as the
Bracceschi and Sforzeschi. Their swords were at the command of those
who could pay them best, and their leaders were men who sought to
found dynasties upon military success. In this object Braccio de
Montana failed. He was mortally wounded at Aquila in 1424, and his
formidable band gradually dispersed, after having passed under the
command of several others. Though Sforza perished in passing the
Pescara ere he attained the power at which he aimed, the object was
accomplished by his son Francesco, who established himself in the
ducal throne of Milan.

Thus, at the time when Ramiro d'Orco spoke, in 1494, the whole of
Lombardy was under the domination of various princes, commonly and not
unjustly called tyrants; but the chivalrous spirit of the people was
by no means extinct; and even the course of the arts showed the
tendency of the popular mind. It is true, Milan itself was more famous
for the manufacture and even the invention of arms than for the fine
arts, but in the pictures of that country during this and the
preceding centuries saints and martyrs, angels and demons, are
frequently represented in knightly harness, and in some it would be
difficult to distinguish the messenger of peace from one of the
terrible legionaries of the great companies.

It seemed, indeed, as if Lombardy had returned to its normal feudal
notions, in which chivalry was inseparably attached to monarchy and
aristocracy.

The central states of Italy clung to republican forms of government
long after they had been extinguished in the north; but it was
republicanism founded upon wealth, not upon purity of character or
simplicity of manners--no, nor upon real patriotism. A celebrated
writer of late days has spoken of "the virtue of Florence" in this
very century. Let us see how that virtue was depicted by the best
judges of the times of which he, at this late day, speaks. "I never
imagined," said Piero de Medici, father of Lorenzo, on his death-bed,
addressing the chief citizens of Florence, "that times would come when
the conduct of my friends would force me to esteem and long for the
society of my enemies, and wish that I had been defeated instead of
victorious." He then went on to reproach them with their vices and
their crimes. "You rob your neighbours of their wealth," he said, "you
sell justice, you evade the law, you oppress the weak, and exalt the
insolent. There are not, throughout all Italy, so many and such
dreadful examples of violence and avarice as in this city."

Again Machiavelli describes the youth of Florence as having become
"more dissolute than ever, more extravagant in dress, feasting and
other licentiousness," and says that, "being without employment they
wasted their time and means on gaming and women, their principal care
being how to appear splendid in apparel, and obtain a crafty
shrewdness in discourse." Nor can I look upon the persevering efforts
of that republic to subjugate all the neighbouring cities as a proof
of virtue or of love of liberty.

Their military virtues seem to have been upon a par with their
domestic qualities. Their battles were fought by hired mercenaries,
and where the Florentine forces did appear in the field, they
apparently merited the reproach which Machiavelli casts upon the
military in general of the central and southern portions of Italy. In
describing the campaign of 1467, he says, "A few slight skirmishes
took place, but in accordance with the custom of the time, neither of
them acted on the offensive, besieged any town, or gave the other any
opportunity of coming to a general battle; but each kept within its
tents, and they conducted themselves with the most remarkable
pusillanimity." Indeed, his description of all the battles in which
none of the great condottieri were engaged, is merely ludicrous.
Moreover, the political virtues of the people seem, at this time at
least, not to have surpassed those of the heart and mind. Florence had
the name of a republic, but its government was in reality an
oligarchy. There is a consciousness in man that persons whose time is
devoted to daily labour have not those opportunities of mental
culture, and that leisure for deep thought, which alone can fit men
for the task of leading and governing. However strong may be
democratic sentiment, however jealously tenacious of the name of
equality citizens may be, there is, in the natural course of all
communities, a tendency to produce an aristocracy. In the warring
elements of a political chaos, the first efforts of order are to
resolve the people into classes--nay, into castes. The hatred of
hereditary authority generally directs these efforts to elevate riches
to the highest place. The wealthy, in whom one sort of pre-eminence is
already obvious, are not so obnoxious at first sight as those who have
no real source of influence but the intangible one of birth; and thus
from republics, founded frequently upon purely democratic principles,
generally rises the most hateful and debasing of all aristocracies,
the aristocracy of wealth. This had long been the case with Florence
at the time I speak of: wealth was nobility, and that nobility was
rapidly tending toward monarchy. Lorenzo de Medici had exercised until
his death, in April, 1492, an anomalous sovereignty, denied the
character of prince of a monarchical state, and yet divested of the
restraints of a magistrate of a free people. He was addressed by all
public bodies and all private persons as "Most Magnificent Lord," and
swayed the destinies of the country, influenced the character of the
people, and deeply affected the fate of all Italy, without any legal
right or actual station. His was solely a monarchy of influence, and,
though even Cromwell felt the necessity of giving to his power the
sanction of a name, Lorenzo ruled his countrymen till his death in the
character of a citizen.

The south of Italy had in the mean time passed through several phases,
and the monarchical element had long predominated in its government.
The only question was to whom it should belong. Foreign families
struggled for the often contested throne; and Italians then only drew
their swords or raised their voices in favour of one or another
usurper. The destinies of the north and the south were sealed; and in
Tuscany no wide field was offered for ambition. A man might raise
himself to a certain degree by subservience to some powerful prince,
but he must continue to serve that prince, or he fell, and would never
aspire to independent domination where hereditary power was recognised
by the people, and lay at the foundation of all acknowledged
authority. It was alone in central Italy, and especially in Romagna
and in the States of the Church--where a principle antagonistic to all
hereditary claims existed in the very nature of the Papal power--that
any adventurer could hope, either by his individual genius or courage,
or by services rendered to those who already held authority, to raise
himself to independent rule, or to that station which was only
attached to a superior by the thin and nearly worn-out thread of
feudal tenure.

"Those who would find fortune," said Ramiro d'Orco, "such fortune as
Francesco Sforza conquered and the Medici attained must seek it at
Rome. There is the field, the only field still open to the bold
spirit, the strong, unwavering heart, the keen and clear-seeing
mind--there is the table on which the boldest player is sure to win
the most. With every change of the papacy, new combinations, and,
consequently, new opportunities must arise, and, thanks to the wise
policy of the College of Cardinals, those changes must be frequent. A
man there may, as elsewhere, be required to serve in order at length
to command; but if he do not obtain power at length, it is his fault
or Fortune's, and in either case he must abide the consequences. Good
night, Signor Rovera."




CHAPTER VI.


"What is it, dear girl?--Let me think?" said Leonora to her young
cousin. They sat in a small ante-room between their sleeping chambers,
which gave entrance from the corridor to each.

"And what would you think of, Leonora?" asked Bianca, laughing
wickedly.

Leonora gazed from the window, whence was seen the garden below bathed
in moonlight, with faint glimpses of the distant country, and the
sparkle of the rays upon the fountain whose voice came murmuring up.
She did not answer, but continued silent, with her cheek resting on
her hand, and her arm upon the sill of the window.

"I know right well whom you are thinking of," said Bianca, bending
down her head so as to gaze upon the beautiful face.

"Not you," said Leonora; "I am thinking of my father; and how strange
it is that he who loves me well, I know, should show his love so
little."

"Can you think of two things at once, Leonora?" asked her cousin, "for
I know one thing you are thinking of, and you tell me of another. You
are thinking of Lorenzo Visconti; and how strange it is that you, who
love him well, have not the heart to own it to yourself."

"Go, go, you are a silly child," answered Leonora, "you cannot know
what love is, nor I either, except love for your parents or your
kinsfolk. I think not of Lorenzo Visconti; he is a comely youth, and
pleasant in his conversation; but he will go hence in a day, forget me
in another, and I him before the third evening comes. You want to make
me fall in love with him, but I tell you, Blanche, you will tire me of
him."

"Faith, I do not want you to love him," replied Bianca, "for I am half
in love with him myself, and can't spare him--only, you know, there is
one obstacle."

"Well, well, go and sleep over it," replied Leonora, "then rise
to-morrow, and whisper gently in his ear that, if he will but wait a
year or two--this loving land and warm climate notwithstanding--he can
wed the beautiful heiress of the house of Rovera, and--but what
obstacle do you talk of, Blanche?"

"The Church! the Church!" replied the other girl; "we are full
cousins, you know, Leonora--within the forbidden degrees. My mother's
eldest sister was his mother."

"But a poor obstacle," answered Leonora; "one of the two bags of the
Church is always open to take in gold, and the other to let out
dispensations."

"Yes: but somehow I can never look on him as aught else but a cousin,"
replied Bianca--"a sort of brother. As such I love him well; but as I
said, I am only half in love with him---a fraternal love, which is a
half love, I suppose. I do not know much about it; but I do not judge
I could let him kiss me so coolly if I loved him any better. Bless my
poor heart, Leonora, we were boy and girl together when we were in
Florence, and were we to marry, I should always think him playfellow
instead of husband. But I'll to bed and sleep; I have nothing to keep
me awake. You go to bed and sleep, if you can. I know you, Leonora."

"No, you do not," murmured her cousin; "but I shall sit up and look at
the moonlight for a time."

"And wish that the nightingale had not ceased to sing true-love
ditties," replied Bianca gaily. "Well, good night. Leave the doors
open, that I may hear if you sigh about Lorenzo in your sleep."

Bianca, or, as the French called her, Blanche Marie, then left her
gaily, and with a light heart was soon asleep. Leonora d'Orco sat
quite still by the window, and gazed forth. All was still and
tranquil. The air was clear and soft, and yet there seemed a sort of
haze--a haze of brightness over the landscape. Have you never
remarked, reader, especially in southern climates, that the moon
sometimes pours forth her pale rays in such profusion that it seems as
if a mist of light spread over the scene? So was it at that moment;
and though the nightingale, as Blanche Marie had said, no longer
trilled his summer song, yet every now and then a note or two from his
sweet voice burst upon the ear--a song, begun as if in memory, and
broken off as if in despair. The time of love was past, and he could
sing no more; but the remembrance of happy days woke up under the warm
autumn splendour, and a few short plaintive notes came welling from
the fountains of regret.

Of what was the young maiden thinking? What feelings woke up in her
bosom under that bright moon?

What harmonious chord vibrated in her bosom to the broken tones of the
solitary songster of the night?

Gaze down into a deep, deep well, reader, and if you gaze long enough,
you will catch an uncertain gleam of light, you know not whence,
glistening upon the surface of waters below you; but you cannot fathom
those waters with the eye, nor see aught that they cover; and so it is
with the heart of woman to those who would scan it from a distance. If
you would know what is beneath, plunge down into its depths, torch in
hand; you may perish, but you will know all that can be known of that
most deep, mysterious thing.

At length there was the sound of a light footstep on the terrace
beneath, and Leonora started and listened. The foot that produced the
sound was still distant, and she quietly glided through the open door
into her cousin's chamber. Blanche Marie was already sleeping
peacefully, the light covering hardly veiling the contour of the young
beautiful limbs, the hair already escaped from the net intended to
restrain it, and the white uncovered arm cast negligently under the
warm, rosy cheek. Her breathing was soft, and low, and even, and the
half-open lips showed the pearly teeth between.

"How beautiful she is!" murmured Leonora; "and how sweet and gentle
she looks! So looked Psyche;" and with a noiseless step she left the
room, and closed the door behind her.

She took her seat near the window again, behind the rich deep
moulding, as if she would see without being seen; but the lighted
taper on the table cast her shadow across without her knowing it; and
there she sat, and once more listened. The step was very, very near
now, and the next instant it stopped beneath the window. Then came a
silent pause for a moment, and Leonora's heart beat.

"Bianca," said the voice of Lorenzo, "is that you, dear cousin?"

Leonora was strongly tempted to say yes, but yet she felt ashamed of
the positive falsehood, and, with a sort of compromise with
conscience, she answered, almost in a whisper:

"Hush! speak low."

"Which is Leonora's chamber?" asked the voice again.

"Why?" demanded the young girl, in the same low tone, but with strange
sensations in her bosom.

"I wish to sing to her," answered the youth, "and to tell her all I
dared not tell this evening. I am ordered to Pavia early to-morrow,
dear cousin, and must leave you to plead my cause, but I would fain
say one word for myself first."

Oh, how Leonora's heart beat.

"Then it is not Bianca," she murmured to herself; "it is not Bianca.
The next room on your right," she answered, still speaking low; but
suddenly there came upon her a feeling of shame for the deception, and
she added, "What is it you would say, Lorenzo? Leonora is here; Bianca
has been sleeping for an hour. But don't sing, and speak low. Signor
Rovera's apartments are close by."

But Lorenzo would not heed the warning; and though he did not raise
his voice to its full power, he sang, in a sweet, low tone, a little
canzonetta, which had much currency some few years before in Florence:


   "What time the Greek, in days of yore,
    Bent down his own, fair work before,
    He woke the echoes of the grove
    With words like these, 'Oh, could she love!'

   "Heaven heard the sculptor's wild desire;
    Love warmed the statue with its fire;
    But when he saw the marble move,
    He asked, still fearful, 'Will she love?'

   "She loved--she loved; and wilt thou be
    More cold, Madonna, unto me?
    Then hear my song, and let me prove
    If you can love--if you can love."


"Songs are false--men are falser, Lorenzo," answered Leonora, bending
a little from the window: "you will sing that canzonetta to the next
pretty eye you see."

"It will be Leonora's then," answered the youth. "Can you not come
down, dear Leonora, and let me hear my fate under the olive-trees? I
fear to tell you all I feel in this place, lest other ears should be
listening. Oh! come down, for I must go hence by daybreak to-morrow."

"Oh! do not go so soon," murmured Leonora; "I will be down and on the
terrace by daybreak; but to-night--no, no, Lorenzo, I cannot, for very
maiden shame, come down to-night. There, take my glove, Lorenzo, and
if I find you still wear it for my sake when next we meet, I shall
know--and then, perhaps--perhaps I will tell you more. But there is
some one coming--fly! fly!--the other way. He is coming from the east
end of the terrace."

"I never turned my back on friend or foe," answered Lorenzo, turning
to confront the new comer.

Leonora drew back from the window and put out the light, but she
listened with eager ears. "It was very like my father's figure," she
thought; "his height, his walk, but yet, methinks, stouter. Hark! that
is not his voice--one of the servants, perhaps."

The next instant there was a clash of steel, and she ran anxiously to
the window. At some twenty yards distance she saw Lorenzo, sword in
hand, defending himself against a man apparently much more powerful
than himself. For a moment or two she gazed, bewildered, and not
knowing what to do. Lorenzo at first seemed to stand entirely on the
defensive; but soon his blood grew hot, and, in answer to his
adversary's lunge, he lunged again; but the other held a dagger in his
left hand, and with it easily parried the blade. The next pass she saw
her lover stagger. She could bear no more, and, running down, she
screamed aloud to wake the servants, who slept near the hall. An old
man, a porter, was still dozing in a chair, and started up,
exclaiming:

"What is it; what is it, signorina?"

"Haste! haste! Bring your halbert!" cried Leonora, pulling back slowly
the great heavy door, and running down the steps; "there is murder
about."

She fancied she should behold Lorenzo already fallen before his more
vigorous enemy; but, on the contrary, he was now pressing him hard
with an agility and vigour which outweighed the strength of maturity
on the part of the other. All was as clear in the bright moonlight as
if the sun had been shining; and, as Leonora sprung forward, she
beheld, or thought she beheld, her lover's assailant gain some
advantage. Lorenzo was pressed back along the terrace towards the spot
where she stood. He seemed to fly, though still with his face to his
adversary, but he had been well disciplined to arms in Italy as well
as France, and knew every art of defence or assault. The space between
him and his foe increased till he nearly reached the young girl's
side, and then, with a sudden bound, like that of a lion, he sprang
upon his enemy and passed his guard. What followed Leonora could not
see; it was all the work of a moment; but the next instant she beheld
the elder man raise his hand as if to strike with his dagger, drop it
again, and fall back heavily upon the terrace.

Lorenzo leaned upon his sword, and seemed seeking to recover breath,
while Leonora ran up to him, asking, "Are you hurt; are you hurt,
Lorenzo?"

Ere he could answer there were many people around them. No house in
Italy was unaccustomed to such scenes in those days. Indeed, scenes
much more terrible habituated everybody, servants, masters, retinue,
to wake at the first call, and to have everything ready for resistance
and defence. A number of the attendants poured forth from the door she
had left open, some with useless torches lighted, some with arms in
their hands. Then came her father, Ramiro d'Orco, and last, the old
Count Rovera himself, while Blanche Marie appeared at the window
above, eagerly asking what had befallen.

No one answered her, but the Signor d'Orco advanced calmly to the side
of the fallen man, gazed at him for a moment, and then turned to
Lorenzo, asking, "Is he dead?"

"I know not," replied the young man, sheathing his sword.

"Who is he?" demanded Ramiro again.

"Neither know I that," said the youth; "he attacked me unprovoked as I
walked here upon the terrace in the moonlight; but I never saw his
face before, that I know of."

"Walked and sang," answered Ramiro, drily. "Perhaps he did not like
your music, Signor Visconti."

"Probably," replied the youth, quite calmly. "It was but poor, and yet
not worth killing a man for. Besides, as it was not intended for him,
but for a lady, it could give him no offence."

"Not quite clear logic that, good youth," answered Ramiro. "Do any of
you know this man?" he continued, turning to the servants.

"Not I;" "not I," answered several; but the old Count of Rovera bent
down his head toward the man's face, waving the rest away that the
moonlight might fall upon him. "Why, this is Pietro Buondoni, of
Ferrara;" he exclaimed; "an attendant on Count Ludovico, and a great
favorite. What could induce him to attack you, Lorenzo?"

"I know not, sir," replied Lorenzo; "I never set eyes on him before.
He called me a French hound, and, ere I could answer him, he had
nearly run me through the body. I had hardly time to draw."

"Well, bear him in--bear him in," said the old lord; "though I judge
from his look he will not attack any one again. Did I not see Leonora
here?"

But by this time she was gone, and Lorenzo took care not to answer. As
he followed the rest into the villa, however, he stooped to pick up
something from the ground. What if it were a lady's glove!




CHAPTER VII.


The servants bore Buondoni into the great hall; but it was in vain
they attempted for a moment or two to rouse him into consciousness
again. There was no waking from the sleep that was upon him. Lorenzo's
sword, thrust home, had passed through and through his body, piercing
his heart as it went. Very different were the sensations of the
different persons who gazed upon his great, powerful limbs and
handsome face, as he lay in death before them. Ramiro d'Orco could
hardly be said to feel anything. It was a sight which he had looked on
often. Death, in the abstract, touched him in no way. To see a man
take any one of his ordinary meals or die was the same to him. It was
an incident in the world's life--no more. He had no weak sympathies,
no thrilling sensibilities, no fanciful shudderings at the extinction
of human life. A man was dead--that was all. In that man he had no
personal interests. He knew him not. There had been no likelihood that
he ever would know him; if anything, less probability that that man
could ever have served him, and therefore there seemed nothing to
regret. Neither had there been any chance that Buondini could ever
have injured him, therefore there could be no matter for rejoicing;
but yet, if anything, there was a curious feeling of satisfaction,
rather than otherwise, in his breast. Death--the death of others--was
a thing not altogether displeasing to him. He knew not why it was so,
and perhaps it sometimes puzzled him, for he had been known to say,
when he heard a passing-bell. "Well, there is one man less in the
world! There are fools enough left."

Old men grow hardened to such things, and in the ordinary course of
nature, as their own days become less and less, as life with them
becomes more and more a thing of the past, they estimate the death of
others, as they would estimate their own approaching fate, but
lightly. The old Count Rovera looked with but very little feeling upon
the dead man; but he thought of his young relation Lorenzo, and of
what might be the consequences to him. At first, when he remembered
that this man had been a great favourite with Ludovic the Moor, and
thus another offence had been offered by a Visconti to a Sforza, he
entertained some fears for the youth's safety. But then the
recollection of the King of France's powerful protection gave him more
confidence, and his sympathies went no farther.

The feelings of Lorenzo himself were very different; but as they were
such as would be experienced by most young men unaccustomed to
bloodshed in looking for the first time upon an enemy slain by their
own hands, we need not dwell much upon them. There was the shuddering
impression which the aspect of death always makes upon young,
exuberant life. There was the natural feeling of regret at having
extinguished that which we can never reillume. There was that curious,
almost fearful inquiry which springs up in the thoughtful mind at the
sight of the dead, when our eyes are not much accustomed to it, "What
is life?"

While he was still gazing, one of the servants touched the old count's
arm and whispered something to him, "Ha!" cried Rovera; "I am told,
Lorenzo, you received a letter to-night, which was sent up to your
room by one of your men, after we all parted. It was not a challenge,
perchance? If so, you should have chosen some other place for your
meeting than our terrace."

"It was not so, sir," replied Lorenzo, promptly. "I had no previous
quarrel with the man. The letter was from his Majesty King Charles.
Here it is; you can satisfy yourself."

"My eyes are dim," said the old man; "read it Ramiro."

The Lord of Orco took the paper, and read while one of the servants
held a flambeau near.


"Well-beloved Cousin"--so ran the note--"It has pleased us to bestow
on you the troop of our ordnance, become vacant by the death of
Monsieur de Moustier. We march hence speedily, and the Seigneur de
Vitry proceeds to-night toward Pavia. As he will not be able to depart
till late in the day, we judge it best to advise you, in order to your
preparation, that he will halt near the Villa Rovera for an hour
to-morrow early, and that we expect you will accompany him on his
march without delay. Fail not as you would merit our favour.

   "CHARLES."


Ramiro read the letter aloud, and then, without any comment on the
contents, remarked:

"You have left the impress of your thumb in blood upon the king's
missive, Signor Visconti; you are wounded, mayhap."

"Ah! a scratch--a mere scratch in my right shoulder," answered
Lorenzo; "I could not completely parry one of his first thrusts, and
he touched me, but it is nothing."

"Oh, you are hurt, Lorenzo! you are hurt!" cried Bianca Maria, who had
come down from her chamber, and was standing behind the little circle
which had gathered round the dead man.

"Get you to bed, child!" said the old count sharply; "these are no
matters for you. Your cousin has but a scratch. Get you to bed, girl,
I say; this is a pretty pass, that two men cannot fight without having
all the women in the house for witnesses!"

In the mean time Ramiro d'Orco had raised the left hand of the dead
man, in which was still firmly clasped his poniard--his sword had
fallen out of the right when he fell--and, taking a torch from one of
the servants, he gazed along the blade.

"This dagger is grooved for poison, Conte," he said, addressing his
host in the same quiet, indifferent tone he generally used; "better
look to the young gentleman's wound."

"I thank you, sir," replied Lorenzo; "but it came from his sword, not
his poniard. I will retire and let my men stanch the bleeding."

"Better, at all events, apply some antidote," said Ramiro; "a little
parsley boiled will extract most poisons, unless they remain too long.
It were well to attend to it speedily."

"Well, I will go," replied Lorenzo; "but, I call Heaven to witness, I
have no blame in this man's death. He attacked me unprovoked, and I
killed him in self-defence."

"We must take measures to discover how this came about," said the
count, thoughtfully. "Buondoni cannot have come here unattended."

"Better perchance let it rest," said Ramiro d'Orco, "there may be
motives at the bottom of the whole affair that were not well brought
to the surface. I have gathered little from tonight's discourse of
this youth's history; but he is a Visconti, and that alone may make
him powerful enemies, who had better still be his enemies than yours,
father."

"I fear them not," replied the old nobleman; "let diligent inquiry be
made around and on the road to Pavia for any stranger arrived this
night. Now, Ramiro, come with me for awhile, and we will talk farther.
Lights, boys, on there in my cabinet. You are in your night gear,
signor; but I will not keep you long ere I let you to your slumbers
again."

"They will be my first slumbers," answered Ramiro. "I had not closen
an eye when I heard talking, and singing, and then clashing of
swords--no unusual combinations in our fair land, Signor Rovera."

As he spoke he followed the old count into a small, beautiful room,
every panel of which held a picture, of great price then, and
invaluable now as specimens of the first revival of art. When they
were seated and the doors closed, the elder man fell into a fit of
thought, though he had invited the conference, and Ramiro d'Orco spoke
first.

"Who is this young Visconti?" he asked; "and how comes the King of
France to give him cousinship?"

"Why, he is the son of that Carlo Visconti who stabbed Galeazzo
Sforza," answered the count, "and was killed in the church. The boy
was carried by some of his relations to his godfather, Lorenzo de
Medici, and educated by him."

"Then 'tis Ludovic's doing," said Ramiro; "he has sent this man to
make away with him, though that was a bad return for his father's kind
act in lifting him to power. By my faith he should have raised and
honoured the boy. That good stroke of a dagger was worth three
quarters of a dukedom to the good prince. But I suppose, from all I
learn, that the youth is now trying adventure as a soldier."

"Soldier he is under the King of France," answered the old man; "but
an adventurer he hardly can be called, for he has large estates in
Tuscany. When Ludovic seized the regency, he was fain to court Lorenzo
de Medici for support, and right willingly he agreed to change the
estates of his brother's executioner for the lands which his father
Francesco had obtained in gratuity from Florence. No, he is wealthy
enough, and if he serves, it is but for honour or ambition."

"But how is he cousin to the King of France?" asked Ramiro; "it is a
cousinship of much value as events are passing nowadays."

"Why, do you not recollect?" asked the old man, somewhat testily,
"that Valentina Visconti married Louis, brother of Charles the Sixth
of France, grandfather of the present Duke of Orleans, who will one
day be King of France too, if the marriage of this young king be
sterile. Three years have passed without any prospect of another heir,
and then the future of this youth, is bright indeed."

"It is," answered Ramiro; and, after a moment's thought, he added, "I
suppose you intend to marry him to your granddaughter?"

"Good sooth, they may do as they like, Ramiro," answered the old man.
"I have made marriages for my children, and seen none of them happy or
successful. Some remorse--at least regret--lies in the thought. I have
but this child left for all kindred, and she shall make her marriage
for herself. I may give advice, but will use no compulsion. In truth,
I one time sought her union with Lorenzo, for he is not only full of
promise, rich, noble, allied to royal houses both of France and
England, but, with high spirit, there is allied in him a tenderness
and love but rarely found. I marked it in him early, when he was page
to that magnificent prince his godfather. The other lads, who loved or
seemed to love him, were sure to prosper through his advocacy of
merits less than his own. In furtherance of my wish, I had Bianca
brought up with him in Florence; but, like an unskilful archer, I fear
I have overshot my mark. The one is as a brother to the other; and I
believe she would as soon marry her brother as Lorenzo. On his part I
know not what the feelings are. He seems to love her well, but still
with love merely fraternal, if one may judge by eyes and looks. I've
seen more fire in one glance at Leonora than in poor Lorenzo's life
was given to any other. But this unfortunate fight may breed mischief,
I fear. If Ludovic sent the man to kill him, he will not soon be off
the track of blood. Thank Heaven! he is soon going on."

"I think there is no fear," replied Ramiro, "unless Buondoni's blade
was well anointed. Ludovic is too wise to follow him up too fiercely.
We may run down our game eagerly enough upon our own lands, but do not
carry the chase into the lands of another, Signor Rovera."

"As soon as Lorenzo can rejoin the King of France, he is safe,"
rejoined the Count, "and methinks, till then, I can take care of him.
I know the look of a poisoner or assassin at a street's distance. Only
let us look to his wound; I have known one of the same scratches end a
good strong man's life in a few hours."

"So say I," answered Ramiro, "but I will go out and walk upon the
terrace. I feel not disposed to sleep. If you should want me, call me
in. I know something of poisons and their antidotes; I studied them
when I was in Padua; for, in this life, no one knows how often one may
be called upon to practise such chirurgy on his own behalf."

Thus saying, he left the Count de Rovera, and while the other, half
dressed as he was, hurried up to Lorenzo's chamber, Ramiro, with his
usual calm and almost noiseless step, went forth and walked the
terrace up and down. For more than an hour he paced it from end to
end, with all his thoughts turned inward. "A distant cousin of this
King of France," he thought, "and almost german to his apparent heir!
Wealthy himself and full of high courage! The lad must rise--ay, high,
high! He has it in his look. Such are the men upon whose rising
fortunes one should take hold, and be carried up with them. It was
surely Leonora's voice I heard talking with him from the windows. If
so, fortune has arranged all well; yet one must be careful--no too
rapid steps. We fly from that which seeks us--run after that which
flies. I will mark them both well, and shut my eyes, and let things
take their course, or else raise some small difficulties, soon
overleaped, to give the young lover fresh ardour in the chase. Pity he
is so young--and yet no pity either. It will afford us time to see how
far he reaches."

With such thoughts as these he occupied himself so deeply that his
eyes were seldom raised from the ground on which he trod. At length,
however, he looked up toward the windows; and there was one in which
the lights still burned, while figures might be seen, from time to
time, passing across.

"That must be his chamber," said Ramiro to himself. "I fear the blade
was poisoned, and that it has had some effect. I must go and see.
'Twere most unlucky such a chance should escape me. Let me see; where
is that snake-stone I had? It will extract the venom," and, entering
the house, he mounted the stairs rapidly to Lorenzo's chamber.

He found him sick indeed. The whole arm and shoulder were greatly
swollen; and while the old count stood beside his bed with a look of
anxious fear, a servant held the young man up to ease his troubled
respiration. Lorenzo's face seemed that of a dying man--the features
pale and sharp, the eye dull and glassy.

"Send for a clerk," said the youth; "there is no time for notaries;
but I wish my last testament taken down and witnessed."

"Cheer up, cheer up, my good young friend," said Ramiro. "What! you
are very sick; the blade was poisoned, doubtless."

"It must be so," said the young man, faintly; "I feel it in every
vein."

"Well, well, fear not," answered Ramiro; "I have that at hand which
will soon draw out the poison. Here man," he continued, speaking to
one of the attendants, who half filled the room, "run to my chamber.
On the stool near the window you will find a leathern bag; bring it
to me with all speed. You, sir, young page, speed off to the buttery,
and bring some of the strongest of the water of life which the house
affords. It killed the King of Navarre, they say, but it will help to
give life to you, Lorenzo."

"The bottigliere will not let me have it, sir," replied the boy.

"Here, take my ring," said the old count; "make haste--make haste!"

The boy had hardly left the room, when the servant first despatched
returned with the leathern bag for which he had been sent. It was soon
opened, and, after some search, Ramiro took forth a small packet, and
unfolded rapidly paper after paper, which covered apparently some very
precious thing within, speaking quietly as he did so:

"This is one of those famous snake-stones," he said, "which, when a
man is bitten by any reptile, be it as poisonous as the Egyptian asp,
will draw forth the venom instantly from his veins. Heaven knows, but
I know not, whether it is a natural substance provided for the cure of
one of nature's greatest evils, or some cunningly invented mithridate
compounded by deep science. I bought it at a hundred times its weight
in gold from an old and renowned physician at Padua; and it is as
certain a cure for the case of a poisoned dagger-wound as for the bite
of a snake. Ah! here it is! have bare the place where the sword
entered."

"Pity it came not a little sooner," said Lorenzo's servant, taking off
some bandages from his master's shoulder; "physic is late for a dying
man."

Ramiro d'Orco gave him a look that seemed to pierce him like a dagger,
for the man drew back as if he had been struck, and almost suffered
his master to fall back upon the bed.

"Hold him up, fool!" said Ramiro, sternly; and, holding the wound,
which had been stanched, wide open with one hand till the blood began
to flow again, he placed what seemed a small brownish stone, hardly
bigger than a pea, in the aperture, and then bound the bandages
tightly round the spot.

"That boy comes not," he said; "some of you run and hasten him."

But ere his orders could be obeyed the page returned, with a large
silver flagon and a Venice glass on a salver.

"Now, Signor Visconti, drink this," said Ramiro, filling a glass and
applying it to his lips.

Lorenzo drank, murmuring,--"It is like fire."

"So is life," answered Ramiro; "but you must drink three times, with a
short interval. How feel you now?"

"Sick, sick, and faint," replied Lorenzo. But some lustre had already
come back into his eye; and after a short pause, Ramiro refilled the
glass, saying,

"Here, drink again."

The young man seemed to swallow more easily than before, and, in a
moment or two after he had drunk, he said in a low voice,

"I feel better. That stone, or whatever it is, seems as it were
sucking out the burning heat from the wound. I breathe more freely,
too."

"All is going well," replied Ramiro. "One more draught, and, though
you be not cured, and must remain for days, perchance, in your
chamber, the enemy is vanquished. You shall have cheerful faces and
sweet voices round you to soothe your confinement; but you must be
very still and quiet, lest the poison, settling in the wound itself,
though we have drawn it from the heart, should beget gangrene. Bianca,
your dear cousin, and my child Leonora, shall attend you. Here, drink
again."

Lorenzo felt that with such sweet nurses he would not mind his wound;
but the third draught revived him more than all. His voice regained
its firmness, his eye its light. The sobbing, hard-drawn respiration
gave way to easy, regular breathing; and, after a few minutes, he
said,

"I feel almost well, and think I could sleep."

"All goes aright," said Ramiro; "you may sleep now in safety. That
marvellous stone has already drawn into itself all the deadly venom
that had spread through your whole blood. Nothing is wanting but quiet
and support. Some one sit by him while he sleeps; and if perchance he
wakes, give him another draught out of this tankard. Let us all go
now, and leave him to repose."

"I will sit by him, signor," said the man who had been supporting him;
"for there be some who would not leave a drop in the tankard big
enough to drown a flea, and I have sworn never to taste _aqua vitæ_
again, since it nearly burst my head open at Rheims, in France."

Before he had done speaking Lorenzo was sound asleep; and while the
servant let his head drop softly on the pillow, the rest silently
quitted the room.




CHAPTER VIII.


A few hours earlier on the day of which we have just been speaking, a
gallant band of men-at-arms rode forward on the highway between Milan
and Pavia. It consisted of nearly four hundred lances, that is to say,
of about eight hundred men. Had it been complete, the number would
have amounted to many more, for the usual proportion was at least
three inferior soldiers, esquires, or pages to each lance; but the
eagerness of the young King of France to achieve what he believed
would be an easy conquest had hurried his departure from France ere
his musters were one half filled.

A short repose in Milan had sufficed to wipe away all stains of travel
from his host; and the band of the Lord of Vitry appeared in all their
accoutrements, what Rosalind calls "point device." It is true, the day
had been somewhat dry and sultry, and some dust had gathered upon
splendid surcoats, and scarfs, and sword-knots; and the horses, so gay
and full of spirit in the morning, now looked somewhat fatigued, but
by no means jaded.

At their head rode their commander, a man of some thirty to two and
thirty years of age, of a fine, manly person and handsome countenance,
although the expression might be somewhat quick and hasty, and a deep
scar on the brow rather marred the symmetry of his face. By his side,
on a horse of much inferior power, but full of fire and activity, rode
a man, not exactly in the garb of a servant, but yet plainly habited
and nearly unarmed. Sword and dagger most men wore in those days, but
he wore neither lance nor shield, cuirass nor back-piece. He carried a
little black velvet cap upon his head, with a long feather; and he
rode in shoes of untanned leather, with long, sharp points, somewhat
like a pod of mustard-seed.

"Are you sure you know the way, Master Tony?" asked De Vitry.

"I know the way right well, noble lord," replied the other; "but you
do me too much honour to call me master. In Italy none is master but a
man of great renown in the arts."

"Good faith, I know not what you are," answered the leader, "and I
never could make out what young Lorenzo kept you always trotting at
his heels for, like a hound after his master."

"You do me too much honour again, my lord," replied the other, "in
comparing me to a hound."

"What, then, in Fortune's name, are you?" asked De Vitry, laughing.

"A mongrel," replied Antonio, "half French, half Italian; but pray,
your lordship, don't adjure me by Fortune; for the blind goddess with
the kerchief over her eyes has never been favourable to me all my
life."

"Time she should change then," answered De Vitry.

"Oh, sir, she is like a school-boy," answered Antonio; "she never
changes but from mischief to mischief; only constant in doing evil;
and whichever side of her wheel turns uppermost, my lot is sure to
slide down to the bottom. But here your lordship must turn off."

De Vitry was following on the road to which the other pointed, when a
voice behind said:

"You are leaving the high road, my lord. If you look forward, you will
see this is but a narrow lane."

"By my faith that is true," said the commander of the band; "you are
not tricking me, I trust, Master Antonio? Halt there--halt!"

"It might be fine fun to trick a French knight if I were my lord's
jester," said Antonio, "but I have not arrived at that dignity yet."

"Where does that road lead to, then, sirrah?" demanded De Vitry,
pointing to the one they were just leaving.

"To Pavia, my lord," replied the man; "but you will find this the
shortest, and, I judge, the best."

There was a lurking smile upon Antonio's face, which De Vitry did not
like; and, after but a moment's hesitation, he turned his horse back
into the other path, saying:

"I will take the broad way; I never liked narrow or crooked paths in
my life."

"I trust you will then allow me to follow the other, sir," said
Antonio; "first, because there is no use in trying to guide people who
will not be guided, and, secondly, because I have something important
to say to my young lord."

"No, sir--no," answered De Vitry, sharply; "ride here by my side.
To-morrow, at farthest, I will take care to know whether you have
tried to deceive me: and if you have, beware your ears."

"You will know to-night, my lord," said the man, "and my ears are in
no danger, if you are not given, like many another gentlemen, to
cuffing other people for your own faults."

"You are somewhat saucy, sir," replied the marquis; "your master
spoils you, methinks."

The man saw that his companion was not to be provoked farther, and was
silent while they rode onward.

It was now drawing towards evening, but the light had not yet faded;
and De Vitry gazed around with a soldier's eye, scanning the military
aspect of the country around.

"Is there not a river runs behind that ridge, Master Tony?" he asked
at the end of ten minutes, with easily recovered good-humour.

"Yes, sir," replied the man shortly.

"And what castle is that on the left--there, far in the distance?"

"That is the castle of Sant' Angelo," answered Antonio.

"Why, here is the river right before us," said De Vitry, "but where is
the bridge?"

"Heaven knows," replied the man, with the same quiet smile he had
borne before; "part of it, you may see, is standing on the other side,
and there are a few stones on this, if they can be of any service to
your lordship. The rest took to travelling down toward the Po some
month or two ago, and how far they have marched I cannot tell."

"Doubtless we can ford it," said De Vitry, in an indifferent tone.

"First send your enemy, my lord," replied Antonio, "then your friend,
and then try it yourself--if you like."

"By my life, I have a mind to send you first, head foremost," replied
the commander, sharply, but the next moment he burst into a
good-humoured laugh, saying, "Well, what is to be done? The stream
seems deep and strong. We did you wrong, Antonio. Now lead us right,
at all events."

"You did yourself wrong, and your own eyesight, my lord," answered the
man, "for, if you had looked at the tracks on the road, you would have
seen that all the ox-carts for the last month have turned off where I
would have led you. You have only now to go back, again."

"A hard punishment for a light fault," replied De Vitry. "Why told you
me not this before, my good sir."

"Because, my lord, I have always thought St. Anthony, my patron, was
wrong in preaching to fishes which have no ears. But we had better
speed, sir, for it is touching upon evening, and night will have
fallen before we reach Sant' Angelo. There you will find good quarters
in the Borgo for your men; and, doubtless, the noble signor in the
castle will come down at the first sound of your trumpets, and ask you
and your prime officers to feast with him above. He is a noble lord,
and loves the powers that be. Well that the devil has not come upon
earth in his day, for he would have entertained him royally, and might
have injured his means in honour of his guest."

De Vitry burst into another gay laugh, and, turning his horse's head,
gave orders for his band to retrace their steps, upon which, of
course, the young men commented as they would, while the old soldiers
obeyed without question, even in their thoughts.

Night had long fallen when they reached Sant' Angelo a place then of
much more importance than it is now, or has been for two centuries.
But Antonio had been mistaken in supposing that De Vitry and his
principal officers would be invited to lodge within the castle. The
lord thereof was absent, knowing that the route of the King of France
must be close to his residence. He was well aware that the attachment
professed toward the young monarch by persons more powerful than
himself was all hollow and deceptive, and that inferior men, in
conflicts of great interests, always suffer, whose party soever they
espouse. But he knew, too that unexplained neutrality suffers more
than all, and he resolved to absent himself from his lands on the
first news of the arrival of the King of France in Italy, that he
might seem to favour neither him nor his opponents, and yet not
proclaim a neutrality which would make enemies of both.

The castle, indeed, would at once have opened its gates, had it been
summoned; but De Vitry, knowing the king's anxiety to keep on good
terms with all the Italian nobles of Lombardy, contented himself with
lodgings in the humble inn of the place, and hunger made his food seem
as good as any which the castle could have afforded. The supper passed
gaily over; the men were scattered in quarters through the little
borough; wine was with difficulty procured by any but the officers,
and sober perforce, the soldiery sought rest early. De Vitry and one
or two others sat up late, sometimes talking, sometimes falling into
fits of thought.

Antonio, in the meantime, had not even thought of rest. He had
carefully attended to his horse, had ordered him to be fed, and seen
him eat his food, and he stood before the door of the inn, gazing up
at the moon, as if enjoying the calm sweetness of the soft Italian
nights, but in reality meditating a farther ride as soon as all the
rest were asleep. It was in the shadiest corner of this doorway
that the man had placed himself, and yet he could see the full
nearly-rounded orb without coming under her beams. As so often
happens, two processes seemed going on in his mind at once; one
suggested by objects present, and finding utterance in an occasional
murmured sentence or two, the other originating in things past, and
proceeding silently.

"Ay, Madam Moon," he said; "you are a curious creature, with your
changes, and your risings, and your settings, and your man with his
dog and lantern. I wonder what you really are. You look like a great
big ducat nailed upon the sky, or a seal of yellow wax pendent from
the charter of the heavens. I could almost fancy, though, that I can
see behind you on this clear night. Perhaps you are but the big boss
of a sconce, put up there to reflect the light of the sun. You will
soon be up there, just above the watch-tower of the castle, like a
ball upon a gate-post. Hark! there are people riding late. By my
faith! if they be travellers coming hither, they will find scanty
lodging and little to eat. These gormandizing Frenchmen have gobbled
up everything in the village, I warrant, and occupied every bed. On my
faith, they will find themselves too confident some day: not a sentry
set except at the stables; no one on guard; the two or three officers
in the dining-hall. They think they have got Italy at their feet; they
may discover that they are mistaken before they leave it. These
horsemen are coming hither. Who can they be?"

While these thoughts had been occupying one part of the man--I know
not how better to express it--and had more or less clothed themselves
in words, another train, more nearly allied to feeling, had been
proceeding silently in the deeper recesses of his bosom. There was
something which made him half sorry that he had been prevented from
proceeding further before nightfall, half angry with him who had been,
partly at least, the cause of the delay. "I do not believe," he
thought, "that the big bravo can reach the villa before morning. He
had not set out when we came away, and yet I should like to see the
young lord to-night. I have a great mind to get upon my horse's skin
at once and go on. But then, a thousand to one, De Vitry would send
after and stop me; and if I were to meet Buondoni and his people, I
should get my throat cut, and all my news would escape through the
gash. If I could persuade this dashing French captain to lend me half
a dozen men now, I might do something; but their horses are all tired
with carrying the cart-load of iron each has got upon his shoulders.
Hark! these travellers are coming nearer. Perhaps they may bring some
news from the Villa Rovera. They are coming from that side."

He drew farther back into the shadow of the gateway. It may seem
strange that he did so; for even in distracted England, in those days
as well as afterward, the first impulse of the lodger in an inn was to
meet the coming guest and obtain the general tidings which he brought,
and which were hardly to be obtained from any other source. But in
Italy men had learned such caution that every stranger was considered
an enemy till he was ascertained to be a friend. The evils of high
civilization were upon the land, without any of its benefits; nay,
more, this had endured so long that suspicion might almost be looked
upon as the normal condition of the Italian mind.

The republics of Italy have been highly extolled by eloquent men, but
their results were all evil except in one respect. They served to
preserve a memory of the arts--to rescue, in fact, something which
might decorate life from the wreck of perished years. In thus
speaking, I include commerce with the arts. But as to social
advancement, they did nothing except through the instrumentality of
those arts. They endeavoured to revive ancient forms unsuited to the
epoch; they succeeded in so doing only for the briefest possible
period, and the effort ended everywhere, first in anarchy, and then in
despotism--each equally destructive to individual happiness, to
general security, and to public morals. They afforded a spectacle, at
once humiliating and terrible, of the impotence of the human mind to
stem the strong, calm current of pre-ordained events. Their brief
existence, their lamentable failure, the brightness of their short
course, and the evils consequent upon the attempts to recall rotten
institutions from millennial graves, were but as the last flash of the
expiring candle of old Rome, ending in darkness and a bad smell. For
more than two centuries, at the time I speak of, life and property in
Italy had enjoyed no security except in the continual watchfulness of
the possessor. The minds of men were armed as well as their bodies,
and thus had been engendered that suspicion and that constant
watchfulness which rendered life a mere campaign, because the world
was one battlefield.

Oh! happy state under the old Saxon king of England, when from one end
to the other of the bright island a young girl might carry a purse of
gold unmolested!

Antonio drew back as the travellers approached to hear something of
who and what they were before he ventured to deal with them
personally. They were within a few yards of him in a minute, drawing
in the rein when they came opposite the archway leading to the
stable-yard. There the first challenge of a sentinel was heard, and
the answer given, "Amici!" showed that they were Italians.

The word was uttered quickly and in a tone of surprise, which showed
they were unaware the borgo had been occupied by the French troops;
but, after a few whispered sentences, one of the four who had newly
arrived asked the sentinel, in marvellous bad French, to call the
landlord or one of the horse-boys. They wanted food for themselves and
horses, they said, and hoped to find some place to rest in for the
night.

The sentinel grumbled forth something to the effect that they were
much mistaken, but, raising his stentorian voice, he called the people
of the house into the courtyard; and Antonio gazed forth and
scrutinised the appearance of the new-comers for a minute or two,
while they made their application for entertainment, and heard all the
objections and difficulties laid before them by the landlord, who was
already overcrowded, but unwilling to lose certain _lire_ which they
might expend in his house.

"I can but feed your horses in the yard, and give you some straw and
covering for yourselves, Signor Sacchi," replied the landlord; "and
then you must lie on the floor of the hall."

The leading horseman turned to consult with his three companions,
saying, "He told us to wait him here if he came not in an hour."

"Nay, I understood, if he came not in an hour," replied another, "we
were to conclude he had obtained entertainment in the Villa--, which
the count's letter was sure to secure for him; but I did not hear him
say we were to come back here, as I told you long ago, Sacchi."

But before they had proceeded even thus far, Antonio had re-entered
the house, and was conversing eagerly with the young Marquis de Vitry.

"If you will but let me have half a dozen common troopers, my lord,"
said he--"I know not how many this man may have with him--but I will
risk that."

"But who is he? who is he?" asked De Vitry, "and what are your causes
of suspicion?"

"Why I told you, my lord," replied Antonio, "he is that tall
big-limbed Ferrara man who is so great a favourite with the Count
Regent--Buondoni is his name. Then, as to the causes of suspicion, I
came upon Ludovic and him talking in the gallery of the castle last
night, and I heard the count say, 'Put him out of the way any how; he
is a viper in my path, and must be removed. Surely, Buondoni, you can
pick a quarrel with the young hound, and rid me of him. He is not a
very fearful enemy, I think, to a master of fence like you!' Thereupon
the other laughed, saying, 'Well, my lord, I will set out to-night or
to-morrow, and you shall hear of something being done before Thursday,
unless Signor Rovera takes good care of his young kinsman.' 'Let him
beware how he crosses me,' muttered the Moor. And now, Signor de
Vitry, I am anxious to warn my young lord of what is plotting against
him."

"After all, it may be against another, a different person from him you
suppose," replied De Vitry. "This Buondoni, if it be the same man, was
insolent to young De Terrail, and Bayard struck him. We also were
going to halt at the Villa Rovera, and Ludovic knew it."

"But, my lord," exclaimed Antonio, "do you not perceive--"

"I see, I see," replied De Vitry, interrupting him: "I know what you
would say. Ludovic has no cause to hate Bayard or to remove him; it
was but Buondoni's private quarrel. There is some truth in that. Are
you sure these men just arrived are his servants?"

"As sure as the sun moves round the earth," replied Antonio.

"Nay, that I know nought of," answered De Vitry; "but here they come,
I suppose. Find out De Terrail, Antonio. Tell him to take twenty men
of his troop and go forward with you. You can tell him your errand as
you go. I will deal awhile with these gentlemen, and see what I can
make out of them."

Antonio retired quietly keeping to the shady side of the large
ill-lighted hall, while the three freshly-arrived travellers moved
slowly forward, with a respectful air, toward the table near which De
Vitry sat.

"Give you good evening, gentlemen," said the marquis, turning sharply
round as soon as he heard their footsteps near. "Whence come you?"

"From Pavia, my lord," said Sacchi, a large-boned, black-bearded man.

"And what news bring you?" inquired the French commander. "None, my
lord," replied the man; "all was marvellous peaceful."

"Ay, peace is a marvel in this wicked world," answered De Vitry.
"Called you at the Villa Rovera as you passed?"

"No, sir--that is, we stopped a moment, but did not call," replied
Sacchi.

"And what did you stop for?" asked the Frenchman.

"Only just to--to be sure of our way," replied Sacchi.

"And you came from Pavia, then?" said De Vitry. "You must have set out
at a late hour, especially for men who did not rightly know their way.
But methinks I saw you in Milan this morning. Will you have the bounty
to wake that gentleman at the end of the table, who has gone to sleep
over his wine?"

He spoke in the calmest and most good-humoured tone, without moving in
his seat, his feet stretched out before him, and his head thrown back;
and the man to whom he spoke approached the French officer who was
seated sleeping at the table, and took him by the shoulder.

"Shake him," said De Vitry; "shake him hard; he sleeps soundly when he
does sleep."

Sacchi did as he was bid, and the officer started up, exclaiming:

"What is it? Aux armes!"

"No need of arms, Montcour," answered his commander; "only do me the
favour of taking that gentleman by the collar, and placing him in
arrest."

He spoke at first slowly, but increased in rapidity of utterance as he
saw his officer's sleepy senses begin to awaken. But Montcour was
hardly enough roused to execute his orders, and though he stretched
out his hand somewhat quickly towards Sacchi's neck, the Italian had
time to jump back and make toward the door.

De Vitry was on his feet in a moment, however, and barred the way,
sword in hand. The other servants of Buondoni rushed to the only other
way out; but there were officers of De Vitry's band not quite so
sleepy as Montcour, and, without waiting for orders, they soon made
three out of the four prisoners. The other leaped from the window and
escaped.

"My lord, my lord, this is too bad!" exclaimed Sacchi; "you came here
as friends and allies of the noble regent, and you are hardly ten days
in the country before you begin to abuse his subjects and servants."

For a moment or two De Vitry kept silence, and gazed at his prisoner
with a look of contempt. The man did not like either the look or the
silence. Each was significant, but difficult to answer; and in a
moment after, De Vitry having given him over to one of the subaltern
officers, nodded his head, quietly saying:

"We understand you, sirrah, better than you think. If I were to
consider you really as a servant of Prince Ludovic, I might remark
that the regent invited us here as friends and allies, and we had been
scarcely ten days in the land ere he sent you and others to murder one
of our officers, and a kinsman of our king; but I do not choose to
consider you as his servant, nor to believe that he is responsible for
your acts. The king must judge of that as he finds reason, and either
hang you or your master, as in his equity he judges right. As to other
matters, you know your first word was a lie, that you do not come from
Pavia at all, and that the beginning and end of your journey was the
Villa Rovera. What you have done there I do not know, but I know the
object of your master."

"But, sir, I have nought to do with my master's business," replied
Sacchi. "I know nought of his objects; I only know that I obey my
orders."

"Hark ye! we are wasting words," said De Vitry. "Doubtless you will be
glad to know what I intend to do with you. I shall keep you here till
an hour before daybreak, and then take you on to the villa. If I find
that one hair of Lorenzo Visconti's head has suffered, I will first
hang your master, the worshipful Signor Buondoni, on the nearest tree,
and then hang you three round him for the sake of symmetry. I swear it
on the cross;" and he devoutly kissed the hilt of his sword.

Sacchi's face turned deadly pale, and he murmured:

"It will be too late--to-morrow--before to-morrow it will be done."

"What is that you mutter?" said De Vitry; "what do you mean will be
done?"

"Why, my lord," replied the man, "my master--my master may have some
grudge against the young lord Lorenzo. He is a man of quick action,
and does not tarry long in his work. I know nought about it, so help
me Heaven! but it is hard to put an innocent man's life in jeopardy
for what may happen in a night. Better set off at once and stop the
mischief rather than avenge it."

"So, so!" said De Vitry; "then the story is all too true. Bayard!
Bayard!"

"He has just passed into the court, seigneur," replied one of the
young officers who was standing near the window; "he and some others
are mounting their horses now. Shall I call him?"

"No, let him go," answered the leader; "he is always prompt and always
wise. We can trust it all to him. As for these fellows, take them and
put them in an upper room where they cannot jump out. Set a guard at
the door. You, signors, best know whether your consciences are quite
clear; but if they be not, I advise you to make your peace with Heaven
as best you may during the night, for I strongly suspect, from what
you yourselves admit, that I shall have to raise you a little above
earthly things about dawn to-morrow. There, take them away. I do not
want to hear any more. Our good King Louis, eleventh of the name, had
a way of decorating trees after such a sort. I have seen as many as a
dozen all pendent at once when I was a young boy, and I do not know
why it should go against my stomach to do this same with a pack of
murderous wolves, who seem made by Heaven for the purpose of giving a
warning to their countrymen."




CHAPTER IX.


When Lorenzo awoke--and his sleep was not of such long duration as
fully to outlive the darkness--he found more than one person watching
him. Close by his side sat Ramiro d'Orco, and near the foot of his bed
the lamplight fell upon the well-known face of his faithful follower,
Antonio. He felt faint and somewhat confused, and he had a throbbing
of the brow and temples, which told him he was ill; but for some
moments he remembered nothing of the events which had taken place the
night before.

"How feel you, my young friend?" asked Ramiro, in a far more gracious
tone than he commonly used; "yet speak low and carefully, for, though
the antidote has overwrought the poison, you must long be watchful of
your health, and make no exertion."

"You are very kind, Signor Ramiro," replied the young man. "I believe
I was wounded last night, and that the blade was poisoned--yes, it was
so, and I owe you my life."

"I speak not of that, Lorenzo," replied Ramiro; "I am right glad I was
here, and could wish much that I could remain to watch you in your
convalescence, for a relapse might be fatal; but I will trust you to
hands more delicate, if not so skilful as my own. Men make bad nurses;
women are the fit attendants for a sick room, and your pretty little
cousin, Bianca Maria--as gentle and sweet as an angel--and my child
Leonora, whom you know, shall be your companions. I will charge them
both to watch you at all moments, and, under their tender care, I
warrant you will soon recover. I myself must ride hence ere noon, for
I must be in Rome ere ten days are over. Ere that you will be quite
well; and should it be needful that Leonora should follow me, I will
trust to your noble care to bring her on through this distracted
country. I know you will reverence her youth and innocence for her
father's sake, who has done all he could for you in a moment of great
peril."

Lorenzo's heart beat with joy at the mere thought. I would have said
thrilled, but, unhappily, the misuse of good words by vulgar and
ignorant men banishes them, in process of time, from the dictionary.
The multitude is too strong for individual worth, and prevails.

"On my honour and my soul," replied Lorenzo, "I will guard her with
all veneration and love, as if she were some sacred shrine committed
to my charge."

A slight irrepressible sneer curled Ramiro's lip, for all enthusiasms
are contemptible to worldly men; but he was well learned in fine words
and phrases, and had sentiments enough by rote.

"The mind of a pure girl," he said, "is indeed as a saint in a shrine.
Woe be to him who desecrates it. We are accustomed to think of such
things too lightly in this land; but you have had foreign education
amongst the chivalrous lords of France, in whom honour is an instinct,
and I will fearlessly trust you to guard her on her journey through
the troubled country across which she will have to pass."

"You may do so confidently, signor," replied Lorenzo, in a bold tone;
but then he seemed to hesitate; and raising himself on his arm, after
a moment's thought, he added, "I hope, my lord, you will not consider
that I violate the trust reposed in me, if perchance I should, in all
honour, plead my cause with her by the way. Already I love her with an
honourable and yet a passionate love, and I must win her for my wife
if she is to be won. We are both very young, it is too true; but that
only gives me the more time to gain her, if you do not oppose. As for
myself, I know I shall never change, and I would lose neither time nor
opportunity in wooing her affections in return. I fear me, indeed," he
added, "that I could not resist the occasion, were she to go forward
under my guard, and therefore I speak so plainly thus early."

He paused a moment, and then continued, with an instinctive
appreciation of the character of him to whom he spoke, which all
Ramiro's apparent disinterested kindness had not been able to affect:

"What dower she may have, I know not, neither do I care. I have enough
for both, and allied as I am to more than one royal house, were I
ambitious--and for her sake I may become so--I could carve me a path
which would open out to me and mine high honours and advantages,
unless I be a coward or a fool."

"Well, well, good youth, we will talk more of this another time,"
replied Ramiro d'Orco; "you have done nobly and honestly to speak of
it, and it will only make me trust you more implicitly. Coward you are
none, as you have shown this night, and fool you certainly are not.
You may want the guidance of some experience, and if you be willing to
listen to the counsel of one who has seen more of life than you, I
will show you how to turn your great advantages to good account. It
might not be too vast a scope of fancy to think of a Visconti once
more seated in the chair of Milan. But I have news for you, one of
your comrades in arms has arrived during the night, warned, it would
seem, that some harm was intended you."

"Who is he?" asked Lorenzo eagerly.

"Young Pierre de Terrail," answered Ramiro. "He seems a noble youth,
and was much grieved to hear that you were suffering. He has brought
some twenty men with him, whom we have lodged commodiously; but I
would not suffer him to come up while you were sleeping, as
undisturbed repose was most necessary to your recovery."

Lorenzo expressed a strong wish to see his young comrade; and in a few
minutes he, so celebrated afterwards as the Chevalier Bayard, was
introduced. He was at this time a youth of about eighteen years of
age, who at first sight appeared but slightly made, and formed more
for activity than strength. Closer observation, however, showed in the
broad shoulders and open chest, the thin flank, and long, powerful
limbs, the promise of that hardy vigour which he afterwards displayed.

Lorenzo held out his hand to him with a warm smile, saying, "Welcome,
welcome, De Terrail! You find me here fit for nothing, while there you
are still in your armour, as a reproach to me, I suppose, for not
being ready to march."

"Not so, not so, Visconti," said the young hero. "I did not know how
soon you might wake, or how soon I might have occasion to go on to
Pavia, and therefore I sat me down and slept in my armour, like a
lobster in his shell. But how feel you now? Is the venom wholly
subdued?"

"Yes, thanks to this noble lord," replied Lorenzo.

"Nevertheless," rejoined Ramiro, "you will need several days' repose
before you can venture to mount your horse. Any agitation of the blood
might prove fatal."

"Why, he has just been named by the king to the command of a troop in
our band," answered De Terrail; "but we must manage that for you,
Visconti. We will take it turn and turn about to order your company
for you till you are well."

"Nay, I do not intend to have that troop," replied his young friend.
"It is yours of right, Terrail. You entered full three months before
me; and I will not consent to be put over your head."

"I will have none of it," answered the young Bayard. "It is the king's
own will, Visconti; and we must obey without grumbling. Besides, do
you think I will rob a man of his post while he is suffering on my
account?"

"How am I suffering on your account?" asked Visconti. "What had you to
do with my wound?"

"Do you not know that I struck this big fellow in the castle court at
Milan because he was insolent?" said Bayard. "He vowed he would kill
me before the week was out, and, depend upon it, he mistook you for
me. He knew I was coming hither, and thought I was coming alone; for
at first the king ordered me to carry you the news of your nomination,
but he afterwards changed his mind, and sent it by the trumpet who was
going to Pavia. He might not have killed me as easily as he thought;
but he met a still worse playfellow in you, for you killed him
instead. You were always exceedingly skilful with rapier and dagger,
though I think I am your equal with the lance."

"O! superior far," answered Lorenzo. "So he is dead, is he? I have but
a confused notion of all that took place last night. I only know that
he attacked me like a wild beast, and I had not even time to draw my
dagger."

"Ay! dead enough," replied De Terrail. "I had a look at him as he lies
below in the hall, and a more fell visage I never saw on a corpse.
Your sword went clear through him, from the right side to the left;
and you only gave him what he well merited--the murderous scoundrel,
to poison his weapons!"

"That is a practice which sometimes must be had resort to, when men
serve great princes," observed Ramiro, with a quiet smile, "but in a
private quarrel it is base."

"Ay, base enough any way," replied the young Bayard. "However, you
have rid me of an enemy and the world of an assassin, Lorenzo, and I
hope you will not suffer long. But there, the day is coming up in the
east, and I must on to Pavia presently. I had orders last night to
ride early this morning and mark out our quarters; but when your good
fellow there gave us news of your danger, I came on, by De Vitry's
order, to see if we could defend you."

"If you will wait but half an hour, and break your fast with us in the
hall," said Ramiro d'Orco, "I will ride on with you, and take
advantage of the escort of your men-at-arms, Signor de Terrail."

"Willingly," answered the other; "some breakfast were no bad thing;
for, good faith! we supped lightly last night. But I will go and see
that all is ready for departure when we have done our meal."

He quitted the room, and Ramiro d'Orco soon after followed, promising
to see his patient again before he departed for the South.

Left alone with his young lord, Antonio drew nearer, and, bending down
his head, said, "I wonder, signor, what charm you have used upon the
Signor d'Orco to make his hard iron as soft as soap. Why, he is the
picture of tenderness--Mercy weeping over the guilt of sinners--a
lineal descendant from the good Samaritan, or of that gentleman from
whom the Frangipani are descended, or some other of the charitable
heroes of antiquity. He was never known to shed a tear that was not
produced by something that tickled his nose, or to laugh except when
he saw the grimaces of a man broken on the wheel."

"Hush, hush!" said Lorenzo; "to me he has been very kind, and I must
judge of people as I find them."

"Ay, sir, judge when you know them well," answered Antonio. "Your
pardon, excellent lord; but hear a word or two more. He who was more
than a father to you, placed me near you to serve you, not only with
my limbs, but with my tongue--in the way of counsel, I mean. This man
has benefited you. Be grateful to him; but be not the less on your
guard. Give him no power over you, lest he should abuse it. The
smallest secret in the keeping of a wicked man is a sword over the
head of him who trusted him. If we lock up our own money, how much
more should we lock up our thoughts. I have seen a mountebank's pig
walk upon his hind legs; but I never saw one that could do it long at
a time. If you wait and watch, cunning will always show itself in its
true colours. The face of a man's nature is always too big for any
mask he can buy, and some feature will always be uncovered by which
you can know the man. No one can cover his whole person with a veil;
and if you cannot judge by the face, you can find him out by the
feet."

"Well, well," said Lorenzo, somewhat impatiently; "open that window
wide, Antonio. My head aches, and I feel half suffocated. Then just
smooth my bed, and put out that winking lamp. I should not have my
chamber look like the room of an hospital."

Quick to comprehend, Antonio did not only what Lorenzo ordered, but
much more, and set himself busily to give an air of trim neatness to
the apartment, removing his master's bloody clothing which was lying
on the ground, and placing on a stool clean linen and a new suit, but
taking care to move neither the sword nor the arms, which had been
cast negligently on the table. There was something picturesque in
their arrangement that suited his fancy, and he let them remain. But
in the course of his perquisitions he came to the silver flagon which
had been brought by the page, and, after smelling to it, he asked,
"Why, what is this?"

"Nay, I only know that it kept up my strength when I felt as if each
moment I should die," answered Lorenzo. "I do not think even the
antidote he applied to my arm would have been sufficient to save me
but for its aid; the poison was so potent."

"Doubtless," replied Antonio; "but it gives me a secret how to
accelerate your cure, my good lord--A wet napkin round his head will
take off the head-ache, at all events," he muttered to himself; "but
not just yet. Better let these men depart first.

"Now, Antonio, sit down and tell me all that has befallen since I sent
you to Milan," said Lorenzo. "Did you find the small picture of my
mother where old Beatrice told me it would be found?"

"Yes, my lord; but the case was much broken," replied Antonio. "Here
it is."

As he spoke, he produced one of those miniature portraits which
sometimes even the most celebrated artists of the day were pleased to
paint, and handed it to Lorenzo. It was fixed in an embossed case of
gilded brass; but as the man had said, the back of the case had been
apparently forced sharply open, so as to break the spring lock and one
of the hinges.

Lorenzo took it, and, raising himself on his elbow, gazed at the
features of a very lovely woman which the picture represented.

"And this was my mother!" he murmured, after looking at it for a long
time; and then he added, in a still lower tone, "Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord!"

He then turned the portrait, drew off the dilapidated back of the
case, and read some words which were written round a small oval box
forming part of the frame, but concealed by the case when it was
closed.

"A cure for the ills of life!" were the words; and, lifting the lid of
the box, he beheld several small papers, containing some substance
within them, discoloured by age.

"Know you what these are?" he asked of Antonio.

"No, my lord," replied the man; "poison, I suppose, as death is 'the
only cure for all the ills of life.'"

"Right!" replied Lorenzo, musing, "right! He told me she had only
escaped dishonour by death."

"Ay, my good young lord, I can tell you more of it," answered Antonio.
"You were a baby then; but I am well-nigh fifteen years older, and I
remember it all right well. I was then in Milan, and----"

He had not time to finish the sentence ere Ramiro d'Orco entered the
room, followed by Bianca Maria and Leonora. The expression of the
countenance of each of the two girls was somewhat significant of their
characters, Blanche Marie gazed, shrinking and timid, round the room,
as if she expected to behold some ghastly spectacle, till her eyes
lighted upon Lorenzo, and then a glad smile spread over her whole
face. Leonora looked straight on, her eyes fixing upon her wounded
lover at once, as if divining rather than seeing where he lay; and,
walking straight to his bedside, she took the chair nearest, as if of
right.

"I have brought you two nurses, Lorenzo," said Ramiro; "they will give
their whole care to you, and you will soon be well. But you must
promise me, in honour of the skill which has saved your life, that you
will not hazard it by attempting any exercise for several days."

"I will not," answered Lorenzo, "unless the king's orders especially
require my service. Of course if they do, his orders must be obeyed."

"Certainly, certainly," replied the other; "but those orders will not
come. He shall hear how near death you have been, and of course will
be considerate. But now farewell. I must go join Monsieur de Terrail.
You shall hear from me, when I reach Bologna, concerning what was
spoken of. Till then, I leave you in kind and tender hands."

Thus saying, he bade him adieu and left him; and Antonio followed,
judging perhaps that Lorenzo's two fair companions would afford
attendance enough.




CHAPTER X.


"Who times gallops withal!" Alas! dear Rosalind, you might have found
a sweeter illustration than that which you give. Doubtless "he gallops
with a thief to the gallows," but I fear me, impatient joy and
reluctant fear, like most opposites in the circle of all things, meet
and blend into each other. Time gallops full as fast when he carries
along two lovers, and between the hours of meeting and parting his
pace is certainly of the quickest.

Never, perhaps, did he travel so fast as with Leonora and Lorenzo.
Their feelings were so new; they were so eager and so warm; they were
so full of youth and youth's impetuous fire, that----smouldering as
love had been for the last ten days, unseen even by their own eyes,
and only lighted into a blaze by the events of the night before--we
might pursue the image of a great conflagration, and say, both were
confused and dazzled by the light, and hardly felt or knew the rapid
passing of the quick-winged moments.

Blanche Marie might perhaps have estimated the passage of time more
justly; for the unhappy third person--however he may love the two
others, and whatever interests he may feel in their happiness--has,
after all, but a sorry and a tedious part to play; and although the
fairer and the milder of the two girls was not yet more than fourteen,
she might long--while she sat there, silent, and striving not to
listen to the murmured words of the two lovers--she might long for the
day when her happy hour would come, and when the whole heart's
treasury would be opened for her to pick out its brightest gems. Nay,
perhaps, I might go even a little farther, and remind the reader that
life's earlier stage is shorter in Italy than in most other European
countries; that the olive and the orange ripen fast; and that the
fruits of the heart soon reach maturity in that land. Juliet--all
Italian, impassioned Juliet--was not yet fourteen--not till "Lammas
Eve"--when the consuming fire took possession of her heart, and Lady
Capulet herself was a mother almost at the years of Blanche Marie.

But it is an hour----that at which she had now arrived in life's short
day--it is an hour of dreams and fairy forms, in the faint, vapoury
twilight which lies between the dawn and the full day, when the rising
sun paints every mist with gold and rose-colour, and through the very
air of your existence spreads a purple light. The tears of that sweet
time are but as early dew-drops brightened into jewels by the light of
youthful hope, and the onward look of coming years, though kindled
with the first beams of passion, knows not the fiery heat of noon, nor
can conceive the arid dryness of satiety.

Blanche Marie sat and dreamed near her two cousins. At first, she
heard some of the words they spoke; but then she listened more to the
speakers in her own heart; and then she gave herself up to visions of
the future; and the outward creature remained but a fair, motionless
statue, unconscious of aught that passed around her, but full of light
and ever-varying fancies.

How passed the time none of the three knew, but it passed rapidly, and
Bianca was awakened from her reveries by the sound of a strange voice,
saying, "Pardon, sweet lady," as some one passed her, brushing lightly
against her garments, which he could not avoid touching, on his way to
Lorenzo's bedside.

"Why, how now, Visconti!" exclaimed the new-comer, "What! made a
leader, assaulted by an assassin, wounded with a poisoned weapon,
vanquisher in the fight, saved by a miracle, and nursed by two
beautiful ladies--all in twenty-four hours? By my fay, thou art a
favoured child of chivalry indeed!"

Blanche Marie looked round at the speaker, roused from her reverie
suddenly, but not unpleasantly. There was something joyous,
light-hearted, and musical in the voice that spoke, which won favour
by its very tone. Oh! there is a magic in the voice, of which we take
not account enough. Have you not often marked, reader, how one man in
a mixed company will win attention in an instant, not by the matter of
his words, not by the manner, but by the mere tone in which they are
spoken? Have you not sometimes seen two men striving to gain the ear
of a fair lady, and eloquence, and sense, and wit all fail, while
sweet tones only have prevailed? The eye and the ear are but sentries
on guard, and the fair form and the sweet tone are but as passwords to
the camp. Nay, more: some voices have their peculiar harmonies with
the hearts of individuals. One will have no sweetness in its tone to
many, while to another it will be all melody; and all this is no
strange phenomenon; it is quite natural that it should be so. Where is
the man to whom the owlet is as sweet a songster as the lark! and who
can pass the nightingale on his spray, though he may not pause a
moment by the gaudy paroquet? The blackbird's sweet, round pipe, the
thrush's evening welcome to the approaching spring, the lark's
rejoicing fugue in the blue sky, are all sweet to well-tuned ears; but
each finds readier access to some hearts than to others.

The voice which awoke Bianca Maria from her reverie was very pleasant
to her ear. There was an unaffected frankness in it--as if welling up
clear from the heart-which was prepossessing to a pure, young,
innocent mind like hers.

"Ah! Signor De Vitry," replied Lorenzo, "I have, indeed, had good
fortune in many ways; and I suppose I ought in common gratitude to
Heaven, to think it all unmixed good. But I have somewhat suffered in
body, and now I am troubled to think what is to become of my troop
while I lie here useless. I would the king would bestow it upon De
Terrail, and let me have another chance."

"Think not of it," answered De Vitry; "we will arrange all things for
you. Bayard is a noble fellow, who will win high fame some day, but we
must obey the king. I find De Terrail has been here, and suppose you
have seen him, for they tell me he went on two hours ago."

"Two hours!" exclaimed Lorenzo; "hardly so much, I think."

"Ay! time flies fast under bright eyes," answered De Vitry, with a
laugh. "Two hours the servants below tell me, and no less. However, I
must on my way. I only stopped to inquire what had happened, for no
news had reached me when I marched; and I found a prisoner below whom
Bayard left for me--a man who waited without, it seems, while Monsieur
Buondoni busied himself with you within. I had three others of the
villains in my power before, but they do not seem to be as deep in
their master's secrets as this gentleman. But my provost must have
finished the work I gave him by this time, and so I must on. Your
pardon, sweet young lady, will you give me leave just to look forth
from this window?"

He passed Blanche Marie with a courteous inclination of the head, and
gazed forth toward the high road, and then, turning to Lorenzo, added:

"Ay, it is all right. Farewell for the present, Visconti. Rest quietly
till you are quite well. We shall halt at Pavia for two or three days
till the king comes on, and then probably for some days more. But I
will come and see you from time to time, and we will make all needful
arrangements. Shall I be welcome, sweet lady?"

"Oh, right welcome, noble sir," replied Bianca Maria, to whom his
words were addressed; "but you must not go without tasting some
refreshment, and you must see the Count Rovera, my grandsire."

"Nay, I have but little time," answered De Vitry; "and yet a cup of
wine from such fair hands were mightily refreshing after a dusty ride.
Your grandsire I will see when I am in a more fitting attire. 'Tis but
six miles to Pavia, I am told; and I will soon ride over again, were
it but to make excuse to the old count for hanging an assassin just
before his gates. However, it may chance to warn others of the same
cloth to venture here no more."

Bianca Maria's cheek turned somewhat pale, and she suddenly turned her
eyes in the direction toward which De Vitry had been looking from the
window a moment or two before. There was a dark object hanging among
the bare branches of a mulberry-tree long divested of its leaves. She
could not exactly distinguish what that object was, but she divined;
and, turning away with a shudder, she murmured:

"For Heaven's sake, my lord, have him cut down."

"Certainly, if you wish it," replied De Vitry; "but, dear lady, it is
needful to punish such villains, or we should soon have but few of our
French nobles, or those who hold with us, left alive. However, there
can be no great harm in cutting him down now, for my provost does not
do any such things by halves."

He took a step toward the door, and then paused for a moment, as if
not quite certain of the fair young girl's wishes.

"You know, I suppose," he said, in a tone of inquiry, "that this man
whom they have just hanged, is one of those who came to assassinate
Signor Visconti here?"

"My cousin has avenged himself in defending himself," answered Bianca
Maria. "I am sure he does not wish any others to suffer."

"Well," answered De Vitry, with a laugh; "I thought myself mightily
compassionate that I did not hang the other three, as, I dare say,
they all well deserved; but this fellow was caught waiting for
Buondoni, and was, we found, in the whole secret. However, we will
have him cut down, if such be your pleasure."

"Oh, pray do, my lord--pray do, at once!" cried Bianca; "perhaps there
may be life in him yet."

"Now Heaven forbid!" cried De Vitry; "but come with me, sweet lady,
and you shall hear the order given instantly. Adieu, Visconti!
Farewell, beautiful lady with the dark eyes! You have not bestowed one
word upon me; but, nevertheless, I kiss your hand."

Thus saying, he left the room with Blanche Marie, who led him by a
staircase somewhat distant from that which conducted to the great
hall, where the body of Buondoni still lay, to a vestibule, where
several of the marquis's attendants were waiting. There the orders
which De Vitry had promised were soon given, and a cup of wine was
brought for his refreshment. He lingered over it for a longer space of
time than he had intended, and while he did so, he contrived to wile
Bianca Maria's thoughts away from the event that had saddened them.
Indeed, though the young girl was less light and volatile than she
seemed to be, and many of her age really were, he effected his
object--if it was an object--far more readily than could have been
supposed. There was something in his manner toward her which amused
and yet teased her, which pleased but did not frighten her. There was
a certain touch of gallantry in it, and evidently no small portion of
admiration; and yet it was clear he looked upon her as a child, and
that in all his civil speeches there was at least as much jest as
earnest. Nevertheless, every now and then there was a serious tone
which fell pleasantly upon the young girl's ear, and was thought of in
after hours.

"I trust the count will soon be here," she said, at length; "you had
better stay, Signor de Vitry, and see him. He sat up during the
greater part of the night, I am told, anxious about my cousin. But he
must rise soon."

"My sweet lady," answered the soldier, "I must not stay. I have
two--nay, three good reasons for going: first that a beautiful young
lady has already beguiled me to stay longer than I should; secondly,
that a pleasant old gentleman might beguile me to stay still longer;
and, thirdly, that, as I intend to come back again often, I must
husband excuses for my visits, and one shall be to see the count, and
to apologize in person for acting high justiciary upon his lands. You
have forgiven me already, I think, else there in no truth is those
blue eyes; and so I kiss your hand, and promise to behave better when
next I come."

Blanche Marie had ample matter for meditation during the rest of that
day, at least.




CHAPTER XI.

In those days, as in the present, there was situated, somewhere or
other in the garden, farm, or podere of every Italian villa, sometimes
hid among the fig-trees, olives, or mulberries, sometimes planted
close to one of the gates of the inclosing walls, a neat farm-house,
the abode of the contadino, who dwelt there usually in much more
happiness and security than attended his lords and masters in their
more magnificent abodes. It is true that occasionally a little
violence might be brought down upon the heads of the family, by any
extraordinary beauty in a daughter or a niece, or any very ferocious
virtue upon the parents' part; but, sooth to say, I fear me much that,
since the times of Virginius, Italian fathers have not looked with
very severe eyes upon affairs of gallantry between their daughters and
men of elevated station, nor have the young ladies themselves been
very scrupulous in accepting the attentions of well-born cavaliers.
The inconveniences resulting from such adventures apart, the life of
an Italian peasant was far more safe and far more happy in those days
than the life of a noble or a citizen, and Sismondi has justly pointed
out that they were more contented with their lot, and had more cause
for content, than any other class in the land. No very heavy exactions
pressed upon them; their lords were generally just, and even generous;
and it rarely happened that they saw their harvests wasted even by the
wandering bands, whose leaders wisely remembered that they and their
soldiers must depend upon those harvests for support.

The house of a contadino has less changed than almost any other
building in Italy. There was always a certain degree of taste
displayed in its construction, and there was always one room a good
deal larger than any of the rest, with plenty of air blowing through
it, to which, when the sun shone too strongly under the porch, any of
the family could retire _per pigliar la fresca_. It was in this large
room at the farm, in the gardens of the villa, that, at an early hour
of the day which succeeded the death of Buondoni, a strange sight
might be seen. The door was locked and barred, and from time to time
each of those within--and there were several--turned a somewhat
anxious, fearful look towards it or to the windows, as if they were
engaged in some act for which they desired no witnesses. Two women, an
old and a young one, stood at the head of a long table; a second girl
was seen at the side; a young man was near the other end, holding a
large, heavy bucket in his hand; and at some distance from all the
rest, with his arms folded on his chest and somewhat gloomy
disapproving brow, was the contadino himself, gazing at what the
others were about, but taking no part therein himself.

The object, however, of most interest lay upon the table. It was
apparently the corpse of a man from thirty-five to forty years of age,
dressed in the garb of a retainer of some noble house. His long black
hair flowed wildly from his head, partly soiled with dust, partly
steeped with water. His dress also was wet, and the collar of his coat
as well as that of his vest seemed to have been torn rudely open. He
had apparently died a violent death: the face was of a dark waxen
yellow, and the tongue, which protruded from the mouth, had been
bitten in violent agony between the teeth. Round his neck, and
extending upwards towards the left ear, was a dark red mark,
significant of the manner of his death.

"Here, Giulo, here!" cried the elder woman, "pour the water over him
again. His eyes roll in his head. He is coming to!"

"Ah, Marie! what a face he makes," exclaimed one of the girls,
shutting out the sight with her hands.

"Poor fools! you will do more harm than good," murmured the contadino;
"let the man pass in peace! I would sooner spend twenty lire in masses
for his soul than bring him back to trouble the world any more."

"Would you have us act like tigers or devils, you old iniquity?" asked
his wife, shaking three fingers at him. "The life is in the poor man
yet. Shall we let him go out of the world without unction or
confession, for fear of what these French heretics may do to us?"

"Besides, Madonna Bianca had him cut down to save his life," cried the
girl who stood nearest his head. "You would fain please her, I trow,
father. I heard her myself pray for him to be cut down, and she will
be glad to hear we have recovered him. It was that which made me run
away for Giulio as soon as the order was given."

While this dialogue was going on, the young man, Giulio, had poured
the whole bucket of water over the recumbent body on the table,
dashing it on with a force which might well have driven the soul out
of a living man, but which, on this occasion, seemed to have the very
opposite effect of bringing spirit into a dead one. Suddenly the
eyelids closed over the staring eyes; there was a shudder passed over
the whole frame; the fingers seemed to grasp at some fancied object on
the table, and at length respiration returned, at first in fitful
gasps, but soon with regular and even quiet action. The eyes then
opened again, and turned from face to face with some degree of
consciousness; but they closed again after a momentary glance around,
and he fell into what seemed a heavy sleep, distinguished from that
still heavier sleep into which he had lately lain by the equable
heaving of the chest.

The mother and the two girls looked on rejoicing, and Giulio, too, had
a well-satisfied look, for such are the powers of that wonderful
quality called vanity, that as it was under his hand the man
recovered, he attributed his resuscitation entirely to his own skill;
and had his patient been the devil himself come to plague him and all
the world, good Giulio would have glorified himself upon the triumph
of his exertions. And well he might; for, unfortunately, as this world
goes, men glory as much over their success in bad as in good actions,
judging not the merit of deeds by their consequences, even where those
consequences are self-evident. Success, success is all that the world
esteems. It is the gold that will not tarnish--the diamond whose
lustre no breath can dim.

The old contadino, however, was even less pleased with the result of
his family's efforts than he had been with the efforts themselves.

"Satan will owe us something," he muttered, "for snatching from him
one of his own, and he is a gentleman who always pays his debts. By my
faith, I will go up and tell the count what has chanced. I do not
choose to be blamed for these women's mad folly. Better let him know
at once, while the fellow is in such a state that a pillow over his
mouth will soon put out the lighted flame they have lighted in him--if
my lord pleases."

"What are you murmuring there, you old hyena?" asked his gentle wife.

"Oh, nothing, nothing, good dame," replied the husband; "'twas only
the fellow's grimaces made me sick, and I must out into the podere.
C--e! I did not think you would have succeeded so well with the poor
devil. I hope he'll soon be able to jog away from here; for, though he
may move and talk again--and I dare say he will--I shall always look
upon him as a dead man, notwithstanding. Suppose, now, that it should
not be his own soul that has come back into him, wife, but some bad
spirit, that all your working and water--I am sure it was not holy
water--has brought back into his poor, miserable corpse!"

"Jesu Maria! do not put such thoughts into my head, Giovanozzo,"
exclaimed the old lady with a look of horror; "but that cannot be,
either, for I made Giulio put some salt into the water, and the devil
can never stand that; so go along with you. You cannot frighten me. Go
and try to get back your senses, for you seem to have lost them, good
man."

The contadino was glad to get away unquestioned; and, unlocking the
door, he issued forth from his house. At first he did not turn his
steps toward the villa, but took a path which led down to the river.
At the distance of some hundred or hundred and fifty yards, however,
where the trees screened him from his own dwelling, he looked round to
see that none of his family followed, and then turned directly up the
little rise. When near the terrace he saw a man coming down the steps
toward him, and suddenly paused; but a moment's observation showed him
that he need have no alarm. The person who approached was no other
than Antonio, between whom and the good peasant a considerable
intimacy had sprung up since Lorenzo Visconti had been at the Villa
Rovera. Would you taste the best wine on an estate, or eat the
sweetest fig of the season, make friends with the contadino and his
family; and, perhaps acting on this maxim, Antonio had often been down
to pass an hour or two with Giovanozzo, and enliven the whole
household with his jests.

"The very man," said the contadino to himself; "he'll tell me just
what I ought to do. He has travelled, and seen all manner of things.
He is just the person. Signor Antonio, good morning to your
excellency! What is in the wind to-day?"

"Nothing but a strong scent of dead carrion that I can smell,"
answered Antonio.

"Well," said the contadino, with a grin, "I do not wonder, for
there's carrion down at our house, and the worst carrion a man think
of, for it's not only dead carrion, but live carrion, too."

"Alive with maggots. I take you," answered Antonio; "that is a shallow
conceit, Giovanozzo. It hardly needs an ell yard to plumb that."

"Nay, nay you are not at the bottom of it yet," replied the peasant;
"it is alive and dead, and yet no maggots in it."

"Then the maggots are in thy brain," answered Antonio. "But speak
plainly, man, speak plainly. If you keep hammering my head with
enigmas, I shall have no brains left to understand your real meaning."

"Well, then, signor," said the contadino, gravely, "I want advice."

"And, like a wise man, come to me," replied his companion; "mine is
the very shop to find it; I have plenty always on hand for my
customers, never using any of it myself, and receiving it fresh daily
from those who have it to spare. What sort of advice will you have,
Giovanozzo? the advice interested or disinterested--the advice
fraternal or paternal--the advice minatory, or monitory, or
consolatory--the advice cynical or philosophical?"

"Nay, but this is a serious matter, signor," answered the contadino.

"Then you shall have serious advice," answered Antonio. "Proceed. Lay
the case before me in such figures as may best suit its condition, and
I will try and fit my advice thereunto as tight as a jerkin made by a
tailor who loves cabbage more than may consist with the ease of his
customers."

"Well, let us sit down on this bank," said Giovanozzo, "for it is a
matter which requires much consideration and--"

"Like a hen's egg, requires to be sat upon," interrupted Antonio.
"Well, in this also I will gratify you, signor. Now to your tale."

"Why, you must know," proceeded the contadino, "that this morning, an
hour or two ago, just when I was coming up from the well, I saw Judita
and Margarita, with Giulio, carrying something heavy into the house.
It took all their strength, I can tell you, though the man was not a
big man, after all."

"A man!" exclaimed Antonio; "was it a man they were carrying?"

"Nothing short of a man," replied Giovanozzo.

"And yet a short man too," said Antonio. "Was he a dead man?"

"Yes and no," replied the peasant; "he was dead then, but he is alive
now. But just listen, signor. It seems that a whole troop of these
Frenchmen came down this way at an early hour, on their way to Pavia,
and that they halted at the gates; but before they halted, they saw a
man on horseback, standing at the little turn-down to Signor Manini's
podere; and that, as soon as he saw them, he tried to spur away, but
their spurs were sharper than his; so they caught him and brought him
back. Then, some hours after, up comes another party, and they held a
sort of council over him, and confronted him with two or three other
prisoners, and then strung him up to the branch of the great
mulberry-tree. But presently some one came out of the villa and
ordered him to be cut down, and as soon as that was done they all rode
away, leaving him there lying on the road. That is what Giulio told
me, for he was looking over the wall all the time."

"Dangerous peeping, Signor Giovanozzo," said Antonio solemnly; "but
what did the lad do, then?"

"Why, he would have let him lie quiet enough, if he had had his own
way," replied the contadino, "for Giulio is a discreet youth. He takes
after me in the main, and knows when to let well enough alone, when
his mother and his sisters are not at his heels; but the good _madre_
you know--" and here he added a significant grimace, which finished
the sentence. "However," he continued, "Margarita, who is tiring-woman
to the young contessa, came running out of the villa, and told Giulio
that it was Bianca Maria's orders to see if there was any life in the
man, and try to save him. So they looked at him together, and fancied
they saw his face twitch, and then they called Judita and carried him
down into the house."

"And then?" asked Antonio.

"Why, then they sluiced him with cold water, and poured Heaven knows
what all down his throat, or into his mouth, at least."

"And then?" said Antonio, again.

"Why, then he began to wake up," replied the contadino, "and now he is
snoring on a table down below, and I dare say he will be all the
better for his hanging."

"He might have been so, if Giulio had not been too near," answered
Antonio, drily, and then fell into a fit of thought.

"I am sure the devil has something to do with it," said Giovanozzo, in
an inquiring tone.

"Beyond doubt," replied Antonio, solemnly; "but whether in the hanging
or the resuscitation, who shall say? However, I will go down and see
the gentleman. Do you know who he is?"

"One of Signor Buondoni's men, I fancy," replied the peasant. "We hear
the signor was killed last night on the terrace, and I was thinking to
come up and see the corpse. He must lay out handsomely, for he was a
fine-looking man. I saw him by the moonlight just when he came to the
gates yester-evening. I hope you do not think our people will be
blamed by the old count for whatever we have done."

"Oh, no," replied Antonio, "you have done right well; though, if you
had killed the one and not saved the other, you might have done
better. Now let us go down to your house."

They walked some hundred yards in silence, and then Antonio said
abruptly, "I wonder what is the good man's name. One of my old
playfellows was in Buondoni's service, I hear. What like is he,
Giovan'?"

"Why he is little and thin," answered the contadino, "with a big beard
like a German's, and a sharp face. His muzzle is much like a
hedgehog's, only he is as yellow as a lemon."

"That has to do with the hanging," answered Antonio. "I have seen
many a man hanged when I was in France. The late king, who was no way
tender, did a good deal in that way, and most of those he strung up
were very yellow when they were cut down. I should have thought it
would have turned them blue, but it was not so. However, I think I
know this gentleman, and if so, must have a talk with him before he
goes forth into the wicked world again. I would fain warn him, as a
friend, against bad courses, which, though (as he must have found)
they often lead to elevated places, are sure to end in a fall, and
sometimes in a broken neck. But here we are before your house,
Giovanozzo, and there goes Giulio, seeking you, I expect. Let him go,
man--let him go. I wish you would send Margarita one way after him and
Judita the other, and then get up a little quarrel with your amiable
wife, for I must positively speak with this gentleman alone, and may
bestow some time upon him."




CHAPTER XII.


By the side of a small bed, in a small room next to the larger one of
which I have already spoken in noticing the usual arrangements of a
contadino's house, sat our friend Antonio, nearly an hour after his
meeting with Giovanozzo. The same man who, some time before, had lain
upon the table in the adjoining chamber now occupied the bed; but he
was apparently sound asleep. The contadino's Xantippe had informed her
husband, or rather Antonio, for whom she entertained much higher
veneration, that the "poor soul," as she called Buondoni's retainer,
had awoke and spoken quite cheerfully, but that he had now fallen into
a more refreshing kind of slumber; and anxious to busy herself about
her household affairs, she had willingly left her patient to Antonio's
care, upon being assured that they were old companions.

Antonio, as the reader may have remarked, had that curious habit,
common to both sages and simpletons, of occasionally giving vent to
his thoughts in words, even when there was no one to listen to
them--not in low tones, indeed, but in low-muttered murmurs--not in
regular and unbroken soliloquy, but in fragments of sentences, with
lapses of silent meditation between.

"It is Mardocchi," he said; "it is Mardocchi beyond all doubt.
Mightily changed, indeed, he is--but that scar cutting through the
eyebrow. I remember giving him the wound that made it with the palla."

He fell into silence again for a few minutes, and then he murmured,
"We used to say he would be hanged. So he has fulfilled his destiny,
and got off better than most men in similar circumstances." Here came
another break, during which the stream of thought ran on still; and
then he said, "Now let any one tell me whether it was better for this
man to be brought to life again or not. His troubles in this life were
all over, he had taken the last hard gasp; the agony, and the
expectation, and the fear were all done and over, and now they have
all to come over again, probably in the very same way too, for he is
certain to get into more mischief, and deserve more hanging, and take
a better hold of Purgatory, even if he do not go farther still. He
never had but one good quality; he would keep his word with you for
good or ill against the devil himself. He had a mighty stubborn will,
and once he had said a thing he would do it."

Here came another lapse, which lasted about five minutes, and then
Antonio murmured quite indistinctly, "I wonder if he be really asleep!
He could feign anything beautifully, and his eyes seemed to give a
sort of wink just now. We will soon see." Some minutes of silence then
succeeded, and at length Antonio spoke aloud: "No," he said, as if
coming to some fixed and firm conclusion, "no; it would be better for
him himself to die. The good woman did him a bad service. These
Frenchmen will hang him again whenever they catch him, and if there be
any inquiry into the death of Buondoni, they will put him on the rack;
besides, we may all get ourselves into trouble by conniving at his
escape from justice. Better finish it at once while he is asleep, and
before he half knows he has been brought to life again."

He then unsheathed his dagger, which was both long and broad, tried
the point upon his finger, and gazed at his companion. Still there was
no sign of consciousness. The next moment, however, Antonio rose,
deliberately pushed back his sleeve from his wrist, as if to prevent
it from being soiled with blood, and then raised the dagger high over
the slumbering man.

The instant he did so, Mardocchi started up, and clasped his wrist,
exclaiming, "Antonio Biondi, what would you do? kill your unhappy
friend?"

Antonio burst into a loud laugh, saying, "Only a new way of waking a
sleeping man, Mardocchi. The truth is, I have no time to wait till
your shamming is over in the regular course. We have matters of life
and death to talk of; and you must cast away all trick and deceit, and
act straightforwardly with me, that we may act quickly; your own life
and safety depend upon it. Now tell me, what did the Lord of Vitry
hang you for?"

"His morning's sport, I fancy," answered the man; "but softly, good
friend; you forget I hardly know as yet whether I am of this world or
another. My senses are still all confused, and you, Antonio--my old
playmate--should have some compassion on me."

"So I have, Mardocchi," answered Antonio; "and, as these good people
have brought you back to life, I wish to save you from being sent out
of it again more quickly than you fancy."

"Where is the danger?" asked Mardocchi, hesitating.

"That is just what I want to discover," said the other; "not vaguely,
not generally, but particularly, in every point. General dangers I can
see plenty, but I must know all the particular ones, in order to place
you in safety. Do you know that your lord, Buondoni, is dead?"

"Ay, so the good woman told me," replied the other; "killed by that
young cub of the Viscontis. Curses on him!"

Antonio marked both the imprecation and the expression of countenance
with which it was uttered; but he did not follow the scent at once.
"Do you know at whose prayer you were cut down?" he asked.

"They tell me at the instance of the Signorina de Rovera," replied
Mardocchi; "a young thing I think she is. I saw her once, I believe,
with the Princess of Ferrara. If I live, I will find some way to repay
her."

"Well, that is just the question," replied Antonio, "if you are to
live or die? Hark you, Mardocchi! you must tell me all, if you would
have me save you."

"But can you, will you save me?" inquired the man; "and yet why should
I fear? The Frenchmen cut me down themselves, I am told."

"Ay, but they are very likely to hang you up again, if they find you
out of sight of the pretty lady who interceded for you. Nay, more,
Mardocchi: all men believe that you were deep in the secrets of
Buondoni and of the Count Regent through him. Now, as you know, the
King of France is very likely to put you to the rack if he finds you,
to make you tell those secrets; and your good friend Ludovic the Moor,
is very likely to strangle you, to make sure that you keep them."

Mardocchi made no reply, for he knew there was much truth in Antonio's
words; but, after a moment's pause, the other proceeded, "You must get
out of Lombardy as fast as possible, my good friend."

"But where can I go? what can I do?" asked the unhappy man. "I have
lost my only friend and patron. I am known all through this part of
the country. I almost wish the women had let me alone."

"It might have been better," said Antonio in a meditative tone. "'Once
for all' is a good proverb, Mardocchi. However, I think I could help
you if I liked; I think I could get you out of Lombardy, and into the
Romagna, and find you a good master, who wants just such a fellow as
yourself."

"Then do it! do it!" cried Mardocchi, eagerly; "do it for old
companionship; do it, because, for that old companionship, I have
forgiven more to you than I ever forgave to any other man. Why should
you not do it?"

"There is but one reason," answered Antonio, gravely, "and that lies
in your own words. When you spoke of Lorenzo Visconti just now, you
called down curses upon him. Now he is my lord and my friend. I was
placed near him by Lorenzo the Magnificent, and promised I would
always help and protect him. Do you think I should be doing either if
I aided to save a man who would murder him the first opportunity? I
always keep my word, Mardocchi."

"And so do I," answered Mardocchi, gloomily. "Sacchi and the rest told
all they knew to the Frenchman, out of fear for their pitiful lives,
and they saved themselves. I refused to tell anything, because I had
promised not, and they strung me up to the branch of a tree. But I
will promise you, Antonio, I will never raise my hand against the
young man. I shall hate him ever, but--"

"Let me think," said Antonio; and, after meditating for a moment, he
added, "there are ways of destroying him without raising your hand
against him: there is the cord. Listen to my resolution, Mardocchi,
and you know I will keep it: if you will promise me not to take his
life in any way--for I know you right well--I will help you, for old
companionship, to escape, and to join a noble lord in the Romagna;
but, if you do not promise, I will make sure of you by other means.
I have but to speak a word, and you are on the branch of the
mulberry-tree again--"

"Stop, stop!" said Mardocchi; "do not threaten me. I am
weak--sick--hardly yet alive, but I do not like threats. The crushed
adder bites. Let me think: I hate him," he continued, slowly,
recovering gradually from the excitement under which he had first
spoken. "I shall always hate him, but that is no reason I should kill
him. I have never promised to kill him--never even threatened to kill
him. If I had, I would do it or die; but I do not like death. I have
tasted it, and no man likes to eat of that dish twice. It is very
bitter; and I promise you in your own words, Antonio. But you likewise
must remember your promise to me."

"Did you ever know me fail?" said the other. "The first thing is to
get you well, the next to shave off that long beard and those wild
locks, and then, with a friar's gown and the cord of St. Francis, I
will warrant I get you in the train of one of these French lords. Can
you enact a friar, think you, Mardocchi?"

"Oh, yes," said Mardocchi, with a bitter grin, "I can drink and
carouse all night, tell a coarse tale with a twinkling eye, laugh loud
at a small jest, and do foul services for a small reward, if it be to
save my life; but then I cannot speak these people's language,
Antonio."

"All the better--all the better," answered Antonio; "many of them know
a little Italian, and hard questions put in a foreign tongue, are
easily parried. It would be a good thing for one half of the world if
it did not understand what the other half said."

"But who is this good lord to whom you are going to send me?" asked
the man. "Is he a courtier or a soldier."

"A little of both," answered Antonio, "but more a man of counsel than
either. His name is Ramiro d'Orco."

"Ah! I have heard of him," said Mardocchi. "He puzzles the people
about the court. All men think that at heart he has vast ambition, and
yet none can tell you why he thinks so. All agree in that, though some
think he is a philosopher, some a simpleton."

"Well, well," answered Antonio, "the first thing is for you to recover
health and strength, the next to get you safely away, the third to
make you known to the Signor Ramiro. He is the sort of man to suit
your views. I know him well. He is rich, and, as you say, ambitious.
He is wise, too, in a certain way; and though he has not yet found a
path to the objects he aims at, he will find one in time, or make one,
even were he to hew it through his own flesh and blood. He wants
serviceable men about him, and that is the reason I send you to him.
If he rises, he will pull you up; if he falls, there is no need he
should pull you down with him. But we will converse more to-morrow;
to-day you have talked enough, perhaps too much."

"But, Antonio, Antonio," said the other, eagerly catching his sleeve,
"you will tell no one that I am here?"

"No one on earth," answered Antonio; and, bidding him farewell, he
left him.

The journey of Antonio back to the villa was somewhat longer than it
needed to have been. He took devious and circuitous paths, and even
turned back for a part of the way more than once. It was not, however,
that he fancied himself watched, or that he feared that any one might
discover where he had been; but his brain was very busy, and he did
not wish his thoughts interrupted till they had reached certain
conclusions from which they were distant when he set out. He asked
himself if he could really trust to Mardocchi's word, knowing but too
well how predominant the desire of revenge is in every Italian heart.
He half accused himself of folly in having promised him so much; and
though he was, in truth, a good and sincere man, yet the common habits
and feelings of his country every now and then suggested that it would
be easy to put an end to all doubt and suspicion, if he saw cause, by
the use of the Italian panacea, the stiletto. "But yet," he said to
himself, "it may be better to take my chance of his good faith, and
let him live. I never knew him break his word, and by his means,
perhaps, I may penetrate some of Signor Ramiro's purposes in regard to
young Lorenzo. I will tie him down to some promise on that point too.
He will need my help yet in many ways; and though I will not set a man
to betray his master, yet I may well require him to warn his friends."

It was an age and a country in which men dealt peculiarly in
subtleties, so much so, indeed, that right and truth were often
refined away to nothing, especially in the higher and better educated
classes of society. The bravo, indeed, was often a more
straightforward and truthful man than the nobleman who employed him.
He would own frankly that he was committing a great sin; but then he
had faith in the Virgin, and she would obtain remission for him. His
employer would find a thousand reasons to justify the deed, and would
so pile up motives and necessities in self-defence that it would seem
almost doubtful which was most to be pitied, himself or his victim.
Antonio was by no means without this spirit of casuistry; and though
no man could cut through a long chain of pretences with more trenchant
wit than he could, in the case of another, yet he might not
unfrequently employ them in his own. He resolved, therefore, not to
engage Mardocchi to betray his master's secrets, but only to reveal
them when it was necessary that he, Antonio, should know them. The
difference, indeed, was very slight, but it was sufficient to satisfy
him.

Antonio's mind then naturally reverted to Ramiro d'Orco, and he asked
himself again and again what could be the motive which led a man so
famous for stoical hardness to show such tenderness and consideration
for Lorenzo Visconti. "It may be," he thought, "that this grim old
tyrant thinks it a splendid match for his daughter. But then they say
she has a magnificent fortune of her own--her dower that of a
princess. There must be some other end in view. She is a glorious
creature too, midway between Juno and Sappho. Well, we must wait and
watch. Heaven knows how it will all turn out. Perhaps, after all,
Ramiro has some scheme against one of the princes of Romagna, in which
he hopes to engage the King of France through young Lorenzo's
influence.--It is so, I think--it is so, surely. He wants serviceable
men, too, and asked me if I knew of any. Well, I think I have fitted
him with one at least, and he will owe me something for the good turn.
But I must hie homeward, and keep these things to myself. No more
interfering between Lorenzo and his young love. He bore my warnings
badly this morning: I must let things take their course, and try to
guide without opposing."




CHAPTER XIII.


Milan had its attractions even for the gay court of France. It was a
devout and dissolute city; and we know how jovially, in some countries
and at some times, dissoluteness and devotion have contrived to jog on
together. Pastime and penitence, pleasure and penance, alternated
among the courtiers of Charles VIII. with very agreeable variety; and
it has been whispered that the young king himself was not unwilling
either to finger forbidden fruit, or to express contrition afterward.
At all events, he wasted many precious days in the Lombard capital.
Morning after morning, fresh detachments of his army were sent forward
to Pavia, till that city might be considered in possession of his
troops; but still the young king lingered, and it was not till nine
days after the events we have recorded in the last two or three
chapters that the main host of France took its way southward.

How passed the intermediate time with those we have left in the Villa
de Rovera? It was very sweetly. We must not dwell upon it, because it
was so sweet; but a few words will tell all. Lorenzo almost longed to
remain an invalid, that there might be a fair excuse for Leonora's
tending; and Leonora feared to see him recover health and strength too
soon, lest the order to depart should hurry him away.

Strange tales are told of the effects of Italian poisons in those
days, and doubtless much exaggeration mingles with all the accounts we
have received, but certain it is, that, though the youth recovered
steadily, each day gaining a little, yet his convalescence was slow,
and the subtle bane of Buondoni's sword was more or less felt for many
after days. Still no order to march arrived, but every day, about
noon, the good Lord de Vitry rode over, well attended, from Pavia to
inquire after the health of his young friend; and although it is
certain that Leonora could have given him more minute accounts of
Lorenzo's state, and the old Count de Rovera could have furnished him
with juster and more scientific views of Lorenzo's progress towards
recovery, it was always Bianca Maria he first asked for. He speedily
became a great favorite with the old count nevertheless. There was
something in his frank, soldier-like bearing that pleased, and
something in his ever merry co

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