“My Lord of Aquila!” he murmured, scrambling to his feet.
Scarcely had he got erect when a hand gripped him by the shoulder, and Fanfulla's dagger flashed before his startled eyes.
“Swear on the cross of this, never to divulge his Excellency's presence here, or take you the point of it in your foolish heart.”
“I swear, I swear!” he cried, in fearful haste, his hand upon the hilt, which Fanfulla now held towards him.
“Now fetch the priest, good fool,” said the Count, with a smile at the hunchback's sudden terror. “You have nothing to fear from us.”
When the jester had left them to go upon his errand, Francesco turned to his companion.
“Fanfulla, you are over-cautious,” he said, with an easy smile. “What shall it matter that I am recognised?”
“I would not have it happen for a kingdom while you are so near Sant' Angelo. The six of us who met last night are doomed—those of us who are not dead already. For me, and for Lodi if he was not taken, there may be safety in flight. Into the territory of Babbiano I shall never again set foot whilst Gian Maria is Duke, unless I be weary of this world. But of the seventh—yourself—you heard old Lodi swear that the secret could not have transpired. Yet should his Highness come to hear of your presence in these parts and in my company, suspicion might set him on the road that leads to knowledge.”
“Ah! And then?”
“Then?” returned the other, eyeing Francesco in surprise. “Why, then, the hopes we found on you—the hopes of every man in Babbiano worthy of the name—would be frustrated. But here comes our friend the fool, and, in his wake, the friar.”