It happened that Alvari was not the only messenger who travelled that day to Roccaleone. There followed him by some hours, the Count of Aquila's servant, Zaccaria, who rode hard and reached the approaches of the castle by sunset. His destination being the fortress itself, he was forced to wait in the woods until night had fallen, and even then his mission was fraught with peril.
It befell that somewhere near the second hour of night, the moon being overcast at the time—for there were threats of a storm in the sky—the sentinel on the eastern wall heard a sound of splashing in the moat below, accompanied by the stertorous breathing of a swimmer whose mouth is not well above water. He challenged the sound, but receiving no reply he turned to go and give the alarm, and ran into the arms of Gonzaga, who had come up to take the air.
“Illustrious,” he exclaimed, “there is someone swimming the moat.”
“Eh?” cried Gonzaga, a hundred suspicions of Gian Maria running through his mind. “Treachery?”
“It is what I thought.”
Gonzaga took the man by the sleeve of his doublet, and drew him back to the parapet. They peered over, and from out of the blackness they were hailed by a faint “Olá!”
“Who goes there?” demanded Romeo.
“A friend,” came the answer softly. “A messenger from Babbiano with letters for the Lord Count of Aquila. Throw me a rope, friends, before I drown in this trough.”
“You rave, fool!” answered him Gonzaga. “We have no counts at Roccaleone.”
“Surely, sir sentinel,” replied the voice, “my master, Messer Francesco del Falco, is here. Throw me a rope, I say.”