"Then art thou the more needed!" burst from the lips of Cornaro, made desperate by this coolness; "for it well may be that the Count of Tripoli is a traitor set high in trust!"
But the Bailò listened to their importunate pleadings as if it were a trifle.
"Come with us swiftly to the Queen! By all the saints in heaven!—she should have her own about her in this danger—whate'er it be!"
"Nay," he said, and would not move. "This is a place of intrigue—and warning hath been sent me. It is, perchance, some one who seeketh my life."
There was no time to parley.
"Haste thee to the royal palace," the elder man said to his nephew, as they galloped away, "and bring from thence, with all speed, the Queen's Chamberlain, the Bernardini—there is none more loyal. Let none hinder thee."
"I serve our house and our honor!" young Marco called back to him, as he put his horse to the spur.
"I go at once to Caterina," his uncle answered reassuringly, turning the head of his good steed towards the castle—a place of security indeed—a fortress famed as impregnable.
The Royal Palace was doubly guarded—as never before, and Marco when he reached it, plead in vain for admission.