At the word “robber,” Montreal changed countenance slightly. The wine circulated—the bell continued to toll—its suddenness over, it ceased to alarm. Conversation flowed again.
“What were you saying, Sir Knight?” said Vivaldi.
“Why, let me think on’t;—oh, speaking of the necessity of supporting a new state by force, I said that if I—”
“Ah, that was it!” quoth Bruttini, thumping the table.
“If I were summoned to your aid—summoned, mind ye, and absolved by the Pope’s Legate of my former sins—(they weigh heavily on me, gentles)—I would myself guard your city from foreign foe and civil disturbance, with my gallant swordsmen. Not a Roman citizen should contribute a ‘danaro’ to the cost.”
“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini; and the shout was echoed by all the boon companions.
“Enough for me,” continued Montreal, “to expiate my offences. Ye know, gentlemen, my order is vowed to God and the Church—a warrior-monk am I! Enough for me to expiate my offences, I say, in the defence of the Holy City. Yet I, too, have my private and more earthly views,—who is above them? I—the bell changes its note!”
“It is but the change that preludes execution—the poor robber is about to die!”
Montreal crossed himself, and resumed:—“I am a knight and a noble,” said he, proudly; “the profession I have followed is that of arms; but—I will not disguise it—mine equals have regarded me as one who has stained his scutcheon by too reckless a pursuit of glory and of gain. I wish to reconcile myself with my order—to purchase a new name—to vindicate myself to the Grand Master and the Pontiff. I have had hints, gentles,—hints, that I might best promote my interest by restoring order to the Papal metropolis. The Legate Albornoz (here is his letter) recommends me to keep watch upon the Senator.”
“Surely,” interrupted Pandulfo, “I hear steps below.”