“A chill morning, Aventano,” returned the gallant, with a grin.
“True; but the sun is breaking through yonder. It will be warmer soon.”
“Why, yes,” answered the other abstractedly, and still he remained by the sentinel, his hand, under the gay mantle of blue velvet, nervously fingering the hilt of a dagger that he dared not draw. It came to him that moments were passing, and that the thing must be done. Yet Aventano was a sinewy youth, and if the sudden stab he meditated failed him, he would be at the fellow's mercy. At the thought he shivered again, and his face turned grey. He moved away a step, and then inspiration brought him a cruel ruse. He uttered a cry.
“What is that?” he exclaimed, his eyes on the ground.
In an instant Aventano was beside him, for his voice had sounded alarmed—a tone, in his present condition, not difficult to simulate.
“What, Excellency?”
“Down there,” cried Gonzaga excitedly. “There from that fissure in the stone. Saw you nothing?” And he pointed to the ground at a spot where two slabs met.
“I saw nothing, Illustrious.”
“It was like a flash of yellow light below there. What is under us here? I'll swear there's treachery at work. Get down on your knees, and try if anything is to be seen.”
With a wondering glance at the courtier's white, twitching face, the unfortunate young man went down on all fours to do his bidding. After all—poor fellow!—he was hardly intelligent as Fortemani opined.