"There is a third!" Francesco interposed with meaning.
"You know him?" shouted the duke. "A twig of the old tree,—a libertine, who would barter his soul for thirty pieces of silver! From yonder hill you may see their lair, suspended on a rock beyond the Cape of Circé."
The speaker suddenly paused and, turning to Francesco, gave a vicious pull at the latter's garb.
"Cast off your tatters," he roared, and the sound of his great voice reechoed through the glen. "Join us in a Devil's Ave! Your limbs were made for something better than to dangle in the noose of a Frangipani. Or,—if the garb is pleasing in your sight you may wear it over a suit of chain-mail and lead us in the fray with lance and shield! It will greatly promote our cause,—above and below!"
And the stout duke grasped Francesco by the shoulders, affectionately, and shook him till his bones creaked.
Francesco repressed the outcry which the pain drove to his lips. A spasm of deepest bitterness passed over his face, as he said:
"It may not be;—at least not now! I have a special mission to perform. The time may come—who knows? Then I will seek you in your forest glades. I have not always been that thing—a monk!"
The word had passed his lips beyond recall.
Rupert of Teck regarded him quizzically.
"Purge your own pasture and let the Devil take care of his own! Why subordinate your soul to chains forged of men?"