It was Gonzaga who spoke. But beyond the fact that the words had been uttered, she realised nothing. She saw an arm advanced, and she took it. Then she dragged Gonzaga with her to the side overlooking the courtyard, that with her own eyes she might have evidence of what was toward.
She heard an oath—a vigorous, wicked oath—from Francesco, followed by a command, sharp and rasping.
“To the armoury yonder, Peppe! Fetch me a two-handed sword—the stoutest you can find. Ercole, come with me. Gonzaga—— Nay, you had best stay here. See to Monna Valentina.”
He stepped to her side now, and rapidly surveyed the surging scene below, where Cappoccio was still addressing the men. At sight of Francesco, they raised a fierce yell, as might a pack of dogs that have sighted their quarry.
“To the gates!” was the shout. “Down the drawbridge! We accept the terms of Gian Maria. We will not die like rats.”
“By God, but you shall, if I so will it!” snarled Francesco through his set teeth. Then turning his head in a fever of impatience “Peppe,” he shouted, “will you never bring that sword?”
The fool came up at that moment, staggering under the weight of a great, double-edged two-hander, equipped with lugs, and measuring a good six feet from point to pummel. Francesco caught it from him, and bending, he muttered a swift order in Peppino's ear.
“...In the box that stands upon the table in my chamber,” Gonzaga overheard him say. “Now go, and bring it to me in the yard. Speed you, Peppino!”
A look of understanding flashed up from the hunchback's eyes, and as he departed at a run Francesco hoisted the mighty sword to his shoulder as though its weight were that of a feather. In that instant Valentina's white hand was laid upon the brassart that steeled his fore-arm.
“What will you do?” she questioned, in a whisper, her eyes dilating with alarm.