“Heard you ever of Romeo Gonzaga?”
“Of Gonzaga, yes; though of Romeo Gonzaga never. Are you he?”
Gonzaga bowed his head.
“A noble family yours,” returned the swashbuckler, in a tone that implied his own to be as good. “Let me name myself to you. I am Ercole Fortemani,” he said, with the proud air of one who announced himself an emperor.
“A formidable name,” said Gonzaga, in accents of surprise, “and it bears a noble sound.”
The great fellow turned on him in a sudden anger.
“Why that astonishment?” he blazed. “I tell you my name is both noble and formidable, and you shall find me as formidable as I am noble. Diavolo! Seems it incredible?”
“Said I so?” protested Gonzaga.
“You had been dead by now if you had, Messer Gonzaga. But you thought so, and I may take leave to show you how bold a man it needs to think so without suffering.”
Ruffled as a turkey-cock, wounded in his pride and in his vanity, Ercole hastened to enlighten Gonzaga on his personality.