And if one little thing had been wanting to complete the evidence against the Count, that thing, by an odd mischance, Francesco himself seemed to supply. The strange group in that dining-room claiming his attention, and the portentous air that hung about those present, confirmed the warning Peppe had brought him that something was amiss. He disregarded utterly his servant's greeting, and with eyes of a perplexity that may have worn the look of alarm he sought the face of Valentina.
She rose upon the instant, an angry red colouring her cheeks. His very glance, it seemed, was become an affront unbearable after what had passed—for the memory of his kiss bit like a poisoned fang into her brain. An odd laugh broke from her. She made a gesture towards Francesco.
“Fortemani, you will place the Count of Aquila under arrest,” she commanded, in a stern, steady voice, “and as you value your life you will see that he does not elude you.”
The great bully hesitated. His knowledge of Francesco's methods was not encouraging.
“Madonna!” gasped Francesco, his bewilderment increasing.
“Did you hear me, Fortemani,” she demanded. “Remove him.”
“My lord?” cried Lanciotto, laying hand to his sword his eyes upon his master's, ready to draw and lay about him at a glance of bidding.
“Sh! Let be,” answered Franeesco coldly. “Here, Messer Fortemani.” And he proffered his dagger, the only weapon that he carried.
Valentina, calling Gonzaga to attend her, made shift to quit the apartment. At that Francesco seemed to awaken to his position.
“Madonna, wait,” he cried, and he stepped deliberately before her. “You must hear me. I have surrendered in earnest of my faith and confident that once you have heard me——”