“Did you address me?” quoth the Duke of Urbino coldly. “I trust it may not again be necessary.”
Before the look of loathing in his handsome face Gonzaga cringed. Gian Maria laughed in his piping treble.
“Have I not served your Highness faithfully?” fawned the gallant.
“So has the meanest scullion in my kitchens, the lowliest groom in my stables—and with more honour to himself,” answered the proud Duke. “Yet he does not go the length of jesting with me.” His eye carried a menace so eloquent that Gonzaga drew back, afraid; but Gian Maria clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
“Be of good heart, Judas,” he laughed, his pale face a-grin, “I shall find room for you in Babbiano, and work too, if you do it as well as this. Come; the men are here now. Let us go forward whilst they are at their prayers. But we must not disturb them,” he added, more seriously. “I will not be guilty of an impiety. We can lie in wait for them without.”
He laughed gaily, for he seemed in a preposterously good humour, and bidding Gonzaga lead the way he followed, with Guidobaldo at his side. They crossed the courtyard, where his men were ranged, armed to the teeth, and at the door of the archway leading to the inner court they paused for Gonzaga to open it.
A moment the gallant stood staring. Then he turned a face of consternation on the Dukes. His knees shook visibly.
“It is locked,” he announced, in a husky voice.
“We made too much noise in entering,” suggested Guidobaldo, “and they have taken the alarm.”
The explanation relieved the growing uneasiness in Gian Maria's mind. He turned with an oath to his men.