The Duke remained standing for a moment, deliberating whether to afford knowledge to Alvari and Santi—who had followed him and stood awaiting his commands—of what he was about to do. In the end he decided that he would act alone and upon his sole discretion. So he dismissed them.
When they had gone and he was quite alone, he clapped his hands together, and in answer to that summons the door of his bedroom opened, revealing Martin Armstadt on the threshold.
“He is there?” inquired the Duke.
“Awaiting your Highness,” answered the Swiss, and he held the door for Gian Maria to enter.
The bedchamber apportioned the Duke in the Palazzo Valdicampo was a noble and lofty room, in the midst of which loomed the great carved bed of honour, with its upright pillars and funereal canopy.
On the overmantel stood two five-armed sconces with lighted tapers. Yet Gian Maria did not seem to deem that there was light enough for such purpose as he entertained, for he bade Martin fetch him the candelabra that had been left behind. Then he turned his attention to the group standing by the window, where the light from the overmantel fell full upon it.
This consisted of three men, two being mercenaries of Armstadt's guard, in corselet and morion, and the third, who stood captive between, the unfortunate Ser Peppe. The fool's face was paler than its wont, whilst the usual roguery had passed from his eyes and his mouth, fear having taken possession of its room. He met the Duke's cruel glance with one of alarm and piteous entreaty.
Having assured himself that Peppe had no weapons, and that his arms were pinioned behind him, Gian Maria bade the two guards withdraw, but hold themselves in readiness in the ante-chamber with Armstadt. Then he turned to Peppe with a scowl on his low brow.
“You are not so merry as you were this morning, fool,” he scoffed.
Peppino squirmed a little, but his nature, schooled by the long habit of jest, prompted a bold whimsicality in his reply.