Trevanion glanced swiftly over his shoulder toward the still hostelry. His first sound of alarm might easily be throttled. At any rate, he reflected, these were not the middle ages. To the owner of this equipage he was an English lord, and lords were not kidnapped and stilettoed, even in Italy. Some wealthy Ravennese, perhaps, not openly to flout public disapproval, chose thus to gratify his curiosity. Anticipating refusal, he had taken this method of urbane constraint. Well, perforce, he would see the adventure through! He shrugged his shoulders and entered the coach.
Paolo seated himself, and the horses started at a swinging trot. Through the windows Trevanion could discern the forms of the men-servants running alongside. He sat silent, his companion vouchsafing no remark, till the carriage stopped and they alighted at the open portal of a massive structure fronting the paved street. It was Casa Guiccioli.
The Corsican led the way in and the servants disappeared. With a word, Paolo also vanished, and the man so strangely introduced gazed about him.
The hall was walled with an arras tapestry of faded antique richness, hung with uncouth weapons. Opposite ascended a broad, dimly lighted stairway holding niches of tarnished armor. Wealth with penuriousness showed everywhere. Could this whimsical duress be the audacity of some self-willed dama, weary of her cavaliere servente and scheming thus to gain a romantic tête-à-tête with the famed and defamed personage he had caricatured that day? Trevanion stole softly to the arras, wrenched a Malay kriss from a clump of arms, and slipped it under his coat.
A moment later his guide reappeared. Up the stair, along a tiled and gilded hall, he followed him to a wide stanza. A door led from this at which Paolo knocked.
As it opened, the compelled guest caught a glimpse of the interior, set with mirrors and carven furniture, panelled and ornate with the delicate traceries of brush and chisel. In the room stood two figures: a man bent from age, his face blazing with the watch-fires of an unbalanced purpose, and a woman, young, lovely, distraught. She wore a dressing-gown, and her gold hair fell uncaught about her shoulders, as though she had been summoned in haste to a painful audience. Her eyes, on the man, were fixed in an expression of fearful wonder. One hand was pressed hard against her heart. Trevanion had never seen either before; what did they want with him?
“Your guest,” announced Paolo on the threshold.
“What do you mean to do?” cried the girl in frantic fear. “He is a noble of England! You dare not harm him!”
“I am a noble of Romagna!” grated the old man.
It was the real George Gordon they expected—not he! Trevanion was smiling as Paolo spoke to him. With a hand on the blade he concealed he strode forward, past him, into the room.