“Quickly, Ercole!” Peppe enjoined him. “Come with me.”
“Devil take you, spawn of Satan—whither?” growled the soldier.
“I will tell you as we go. We have not a moment to spare. There is treachery afoot—— Gonzaga——” he gasped, and ended desperately: “Will you come?”
Fortemani needed no second bidding. The chance of catching pretty Messer Romeo at a treachery was too sweet a lure. Snorting and puffing—for hard drinking had sorely impaired his wind—the great captain hurried the fool along, listening as they went to the gasps in which he brought out his story. It was not much, after all. Peppe had seen Messer Gonzaga repair to the armoury tower. Through an arrow-slit he had watched him take down and examine an arbalest, place it on the table and sit down to write.
“Well?” demanded Ercole. “What else?”
“Naught else. That is all,” answered the hunchback.
“Heaven and hell!” roared the swashbuckler, coming to a standstill and glowering down upon his impatient companion. “And you have made me run for this?”
“And is it not enough?” retorted Peppe testily. “Will you come on?”
“Not a foot farther,” returned the captain, getting very angry. “Is this a miserable jest? What of the treachery you spoke of?”
“A letter and an arbalest!” panted the maddened Peppe, grimacing horribly at this delay. “God, was there ever such a fool! Does this mean nothing to that thick, empty thing you call a head? Have you forgotten how Gian Maria's offer of a thousand florins came to Roccaleone? On an arbalest quarrel, stupid! Come on, I say, and afterwards you shall have my motley—the only livery you have a right to wear.”