“I need first your word that should the undertaking prove unsuited to you, or beyond you, you will respect the matter, and keep it secret.”
“Body of Satan! No corpse was ever half so dumb as I shall be.”
“Excellent! Can you find me a score of stout fellows to form a bodyguard and a garrison, who, in return for good quarters—perchance for some weeks—and payment at four times the ordinary mercenaries' rate, will be willing to take some risk, and chance even a brush with the Duke's forces?”
Ercole blew out his mottled cheeks until Gonzaga feared that he would burst them.
“It's outlawry!” he roared, when he had found his voice. “Outlawry, or I'm a fool.”
“Why, yes,” confessed Gonzaga. “It is outlaw matter of a kind. But the risk is slender.”
“Can you tell me no more?”
“I dare not.”
Ercole emptied his wine-cup at a draught and splashed the dregs on to the floor. Then, setting down the empty vessel, he sat steeped in thought awhile. Growing impatient:
“Well,” cried Gonzaga at last, “can you help me? Can you find the men?”