“But stay, my good Gonzaga. He may be right.”
“Your heart is over-tender,” answered Romeo impatiently. But she had turned from him now, and was begging Francesco to make his meaning clearer.
“Had he raised his hand against you, Madonna, or even against Messer Gonzaga, or had he disobeyed an order given him by either of you, then, and then only, could there be question of insubordination. But he has done none of these things. He is guilty of grossly misusing my servant, it is true, but there is no insubordination in that, since he was under no promise of loyalty to Lanciotto.”
They stared at him as though his words were words of recondite wisdom instead of the simple statement of a plain case. Gonzaga crestfallen, Fortemani with a light of hope and wonder shining in his eyes, and Madonna with a faint nodding of the head that argued agreement. They wrangled a while yet, Gonzaga bitter and vindictive and rashly scornful of both Francesco and Fortemani. But the Count so resolutely held the ground he had taken that in the end Valentina shrugged her shoulders, acknowledged herself convinced, and bade Francesco deliver judgment.
“You are in earnest, Madonna?” quoth Francesco in surprise, whilst a black scowl disfigured the serenity of Gonzaga's brow.
“I am indeed. Deal with him as you account best and most just, and it shall fare with him precisely as you ordain.”
Francesco turned to the men-at-arms. “Unbind him, one of you,” he said shortly.
“I believe that you are mad,” cried Gonzaga, in a frenzy, but his mood sprang rather from the chagrin of seeing his interloper prevail where he had failed. “Madonna, do not heed him.”
“I pray you let be, my good Gonzaga,” she answered soothingly, and Gonzaga, ready to faint from spite, obeyed her.
“Leave him there, and go,” was Paolo's next order to the men, and they departed, leaving the astonished Fortemani standing alone, unbound and sheepish.