From the castle a mighty shout went up. The men disappeared from the postern to reappear a moment later on the ramparts, and Francesco laughed deep down in his throat as he perceived the purpose of this. They had bethought them of the guns that were mounted there, and were gone to use them against Valentina's little army. Gun after gun they tried, and a fierce cry of rage burst forth when they realised by what dummies they had been held in check during the past week. This was followed by a silence of some moments, terminated at last by the sound of a bugle.
Answering that summons to a parley, and with a last word of injunction to Fortemani, who was left in charge of the men at the guns, Francesco rode forward on one of Gian Maria's horses, escorted by Lanciotto and Zaccaria similarly mounted, and each armed with a loaded arquebuse.
Under the walls of Roccaleone he drew rein, laughing to himself at this monstrous change of sides. As he halted—helmet on head, but beaver open—a body came hurtling over the battlements and splashed into the foaming waters below. It was the corpse of Aventano, which Gian Maria had peremptorily bidden them to remove from his sight.
“I desire to speak with Monna Valentina della Rovere,” cried the furious Duke.
“You may speak with me, Gian Maria,” answered Francesco's voice, clear and metallic. “I am her representative, her sometime Provost of Roccaleone.”
“Who are you?” quoth the Duke, struck by a familiar note in that mocking voice.
“Francesco del Falco, Count of Aquila.”
“By God! You!”
“An age of marvels, is it not?” laughed Francesco.
“Which will you lose, my cousin—a wife or a duchy?”