“Madonna, this knave was insolent.”
“An insolence that you no doubt provoked,” put in Gonzaga, a dimple showing on his woman's cheek. But the sterner rebuke fell from the lips of Valentina.
“Knave?” she questioned, with flushed countenance. “If you would not have me regret your admittance, Messer Francesco, I pray you curb your words. Here are no knaves. That, sir, is the captain of my soldiers.”
Francesco bowed submissively, as patient under her reproof as he had been hasty under Fortemani's.
“It was on the matter of this captaincy that we fell to words,” he answered, with more humility. “By his own announcement I understood this nobleman”—and his eyes turned to Gonzaga—“to be your captain.”
“He is the captain of my castle,” she informed him.
“As you see, Ser Francesco,” put in Peppe, who had perched himself upon the balustrade, “we suffer from no lack of captains here. We have also Fra Domenico, who is captain of our souls and of the kitchen; myself am captain of——”
“Devil take you, fool,” snapped Gonzaga, thrusting him roughly from his perch. Then turning abruptly to the Count: “You bear a message for us, sir?” he questioned loftily.
Swallowing the cavalier tone, and overlooking the pronoun Gonzaga employed, Francesco inclined his head again to the lady.
“I should prefer to deliver it in more privacy than this.” And his eye travelled round the court and up the steps behind, where was now collected the entire company of Fortemani. Gonzaga sneered and tossed his golden curls, but Valentina saw naught unreasonable in the request, and bidding Romeo attend her and Francesco follow, she led the way.