“So fleeting that no memory of him is left you?” quoth he.
“Precisely, Highness.”
“You lie, you filth,” Gian Maria thundered in a towering rage. “It was but this morning that you said his height was splendid, his countenance noble, his manner princely, his speech courtly, and—I know not what besides. Yet now you tell me—you tell me—that your glimpse of him was so fleeting that you cannot describe him. You know his name, rogue, and I will have it from you, or else——”
“Indeed, indeed, most noble lord, be not incensed——” the fool began, in fearful protestation. But the Duke interrupted him.
“Incensed?” he echoed, his eyes dilating in a sort of horror at the notion. “Do you dare impute to me the mortal sin of choler? I am not incensed; there is no anger in me.” He crossed himself, as if to exorcise the evil mood if it indeed existed, and devotedly bowing his head and folding his hands—“Libera me a malo, Domine!” he murmured audibly. Then, with a greater fierceness than before—“Now,” he demanded, “will you tell me his name?”
“I would I could,” the terrified hunchback began. But at that the Duke turned from him with a shrug of angry impatience, and clapping his hands together:
“Olá! Martino!” he called. Instantly the door opened, and the Swiss appeared. “Bring in your men and your rope.”
The captain turned on his heel, and simultaneously the fool cast himself at Gian Maria's feet.
“Mercy, your Highness!” he wailed. “Do not have me hanged. I am——”
“We are not going to hang you,” the Duke broke in coldly. “Dead you would indeed be dumb, and avail us nothing. We want you alive, Messer Peppino—alive and talkative; we find you very reserved for a fool. But we hope to make you speak.”