II

The journey took over a fortnight, for a rainy autumn had spoiled the roads. On the 18th of September, the Duke, being fatigued and indisposed, determined to pass the night in a mountain cave, which afforded shelter to a few herdsmen. It would not have been difficult to find a more commodious resting-place, but Il Moro deliberately chose this wild spot for his reception of the ambassador from Maximilian. The watch-fires illumined the stalactites and the natural vaulting of the cavern; pheasants were roasting for supper; and the Duke, seated on a camp-chair, his feet on a brazier, and his head muffled—for he was suffering from toothache—reflected, not without a certain satisfaction, on the greatness of his misfortunes. Lucrezia Crivelli, bright and gentle as ever, was preparing an anodyne of wine, pepper, cloves, and other potent spices for the illustrious sufferer.

'So, then, Messer Odoardo,' said Il Moro to the Emperor's envoy,' you can tell his Majesty where, and in what condition you found the legitimate ruler of Lombardy.'

Ludovico was in one of the fits of loquacity which sometimes succeeded to long periods of silence and dejection. 'Foxes have holes,' he went on, 'and birds of the air have nests, but I have not where to lay my head. Corio,' he turned to the chronicler, 'in compiling your annals omit not description of this lodging, the refuge of the last heir of the great Sforzas, of the descendant of Anglus, the Trojan, the comrade of Æneas.'

'My lord,' said Odoardo, 'your misfortunes deserve the pen of a new Tacitus.'

Lucrezia brought the anodyne, and the Duke paused to look at her admiringly. Her pale clear face was bright in the rosy glow of the firelight, her black hair coiled smoothly above her pure forehead, upon which glowed the single diamond of the ferroniera. She looked at her lover with her grave, innocent, and observant eyes; on her lips was a smile of almost maternal tenderness.

'Sweet heart!' thought Ludovico, 'here is one who will never betray me!' and receiving the medicament from her hand, he again turned to the chronicler and said, with swelling sententiousness: 'Corio, set down likewise this; "true friendship is proved in the furnace of affliction, as gold is proved in the fire."'

'Eh, old fellow, why so gloomy?' cried Janachi, seating himself at the Duke's feet, and slapping his knee, 'a truce to this black bile! There's remedy for every ill save death, and trust me, old man, it's better to be a living ass than a dead prince! Kiki riki! Look! look! what a throng of ass-saddles we have here!'

'Well, what of it?' asked the Duke, wearily.

'Moro mio, moro mio, there's an old Story which says—'

'Well—go on; relate the story!'

The fool jumped to his feet, ringing his bells and shaking his rattle.

'Once upon a time there was a king in Naples, and he bade Giotto the painter make him a wall-picture of his kingdom. And the saucy painter drew a stout Ass carrying on his back a Saddle with the royal arms, the sceptre, and the crown; and the Ass was sniffing at another Saddle, also emblazoned with arms, sceptre and crown. Wherefore, dear Sir, I say to thee, to-day the people of Milan are sniffing at the French Saddle. Let them alone! Soon enough will it gall their backs, and they'll wish to be quit of it!'

'Stulti aliquando sapientes,' said the Duke, with a melancholy smile at this piece of imbecility. 'Corio, write in the chronicle——'

But he did not finish the phrase, for the snorting of horses, the tramp of hoofs, and the buzz of voices were heard outside the cavern. Mariolo Pusterla the chamberlain, his face pale and agitated, entered hastily, and whispered with Calco the chief secretary.

'What has happened?' asked the Duke.

No one was willing to reply, and all eyes fell.

'Your Excellency——' began the secretary, in trembling tones, and broke off.

'May the Lord support your Excellency!' said Luigi Marliani. 'Be prepared; bad news has arrived from Milan.'

'Speak, then; speak! For God's sake, speak!' cried Ludovico, turning pale. Then looking towards the entrance, he caught sight of a man splashed with mud, and travel-worn. The Duke brushed Marliani aside, hurried to the messenger, and snatching a letter from his hand, broke the seal, read with lightning glance, uttered a cry, and sank senseless to the ground. Marliani and Pusterla were barely in time to break his fall.

On the 17th of September, the feast of San Satiro, the traitor Bernardino da Corte had opened the gates of the Castle of Milan to the French marshal, Gian Giacomo Trivulzio.

Ludovico was practised in the simulation of diplomatic faintness. This time, however, the physicians had trouble in restoring him to consciousness. When at last he regained his senses, he sighed, made the sign of the cross, and murmured:—

'Since Judas there never was a traitor like Bernardino da Corte.'

And for the rest of the evening he did not utter a single word.

A few days later the Duke arrived at Innsbrück, where he was graciously received by the Emperor and lodged in the imperial palace. One evening he was walking up and down his chamber, and dictating to Bartolomeo Calco credentials for the envoys whom he was secretly despatching to the Sultan. The face of the old secretary expressed nothing but attention, and his pen travelled rapidly over the paper, as the words fell from his master's lips.

'"Firm and invariable in our good disposition towards your Highness"'—so ran the document—'"and trusting that in the task of recovering our lost dominions, we may look for aid to the magnanimity of the powerful ruler of the Ottoman Empire, we have resolved to send three different messengers by three different roads, so that at least one of them may arrive and present our letter. The Pope, who by nature is perfidious and wicked——"'

Here the pen of the dispassionate secretary stopped; he looked up, wrinkling his brows. He could not believe his ears.

'The Pope?'

'Yes, the Pope. Go on,'

The secretary looked at his work again, and the pen scratched faster than before.

'"The Pope, being by nature wicked and perfidious, has instigated the French king to carry war into Lombardy."'

Then came the list of French victories.

'"Dismayed by these misfortunes,"' continued Il Moro frankly, '"we have judged it prudent to seek refuge at the court of the Emperor Maximilian, while awaiting the assistance of your Highness. All have betrayed us; but more than the rest, Bernardino"'—here his voice shook—'"Bernardino da Corte, a serpent warmed in our bosom, a slave whom we had heaped with favours and benefactions; a traitor like unto Judas"—Nay, 'tis vain to speak of Judas to an infidel; scratch out "Judas."'

He prayed the Sultan to assail Venice by sea and by land, assuring him of easy victory and the complete destruction of that secular enemy of the Ottomans, the arrogant Republic of St. Mark.

'"And we pray your Highness to remember,"' he concluded, '"that in this war, as in every other undertaking, all we have is at the disposal of your Highness, who in all Europe will find no more faithful ally than Ourselves."'

He had approached the table and seemed desirous of adding yet another few words; but in a sudden access of discouragement he waved his hand, and threw himself on a seat. Calco carefully strewed the wet writing with sand; then he looked up and saw that the Duke had covered his face with his hands, and was weeping, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

'Lord, why hast thou permitted this? Where, where is Thine eternal justice?' he mourned. Then uncovering his distorted face, which at that moment seemed to belong to some feeble old woman, he said:—

'Bartolomeo, you know that I repose confidence in you. Tell me, on your conscience, am I acting wisely?'

'Does your Excellency refer to the embassy to the Grand Turk?'

Il Moro nodded.

The old man wrinkled his forehead and puffed his lips meditatively.

'Certes, those who hunt with wolves must howl with them; yet if we look at the matter from another point of view—in fine, if I am permitted to counsel your Excellency, I would say, wait!'

'I have waited. Now I will demonstrate that the Duke of Milan is not to be tossed aside like a mere pawn. My friend, I have been ever on the side of right, and I have been most iniquitously abused. Who shall blame me if I appeal, not only to the Grand Turk, but to the very devil himself?'

'Yet an invasion by the infidel,' suggested the secretary, 'might perchance be cause of grave peril to the Christian Church.'

'God forbid, Bartolomeo! I have considered that. I would suffer a thousand deaths rather than bring damage to our holy Mother Church. But hark you! You do not fully understand my design.'

At these words his lips took on their old rapacious smile. 'We will brew these villains such a broth,' he continued; 'we will entangle them in such nets, that none of them shall look again on God's world! But the Grand Turk!—why, the Grand Turk is no more than a tool in my hands! When the time is ripe we will cast him aside, and then we will root out all that vile sect of Mahometans, and free the sacred sepulchre of the Lord from the unclean domination of infidel dogs!'

Calco discreetly lowered his eyes and made no answer.

'This is bad,' he said to himself; 'these are dreams; in all this there is no policy. He lets himself be carried too far, and he perceives not consequences.'

But that night Ludovico, animated by hope in God and in the Grand Turk, prayed long before his favourite picture, by Leonardo, in which the Virgin was pourtrayed with the features and smile of Cecilia, Countess Bergamini.