A half-hour later in the kitchen of the peasant's house on the outskirts of Casalbagliano, where Stoffel had taken up his temporary residence, Bellarion and the captured leader faced each other.
The prisoner, his wrists pinioned behind him, stood between two Swiss pikemen, whilst Bellarion holding a candle level with his face scanned those pallid, pock-marked features which seemed vaguely familiar.
'We've met before, I think ...' Bellarion broke off. It was the beard that had made an obstacle for his memory. 'You are that false friar who journeyed with me to Casale, that brigand named ... Lorenzaccio. Lorenzaccio da Trino.'
The beady eyes blinked in terror. 'I don't deny it. But I was your friend then, and but for that blundering peasant ...'
'Quiet!' he was curtly bidden. Bellarion set down the candle on the table, which was of oak, rough-hewn and ponderous as a refectory board, and himself sat down in the armchair that stood by its head. Fearfully Lorenzaccio considered him, taking stock of the richness of his apparel and the air of authority by which the timid convent nursling of a year ago was now invested. His fears withheld him from any philosophical reflections upon the mutability of human life.
Suddenly Bellarion's bold dark eyes were upon him, and the brigand shuddered despite the stifling heat of the night.
'You know what awaits you?'
'I know the risks I ran. But ...'
'A rope, my friend. I tell you so as to dispel any fond doubt.'
The man reeled a little, his knees sagging under him. The guards steadied him. Watching him, Bellarion seemed almost to smile. Then he took his chin in his hand, and for a long moment there was silence save for the prisoner's raucous, agitated breathing. At last Bellarion spoke again, very slowly, painfully slowly to the listening man, since he discerned his fate to be wrapped up in Bellarion's words.