Francesco's eyebrows shot up in justifiable astonishment.
“I know of many,” he answered, with a smile, an answer which by its simplicity seemed to nonplus the Duke.
“Let us hear some of them,” he challenged presently.
“Nay, let us hear, rather, some reason why my poor head should be so harshly dealt with. When a man is rudely taken, as I have been, it is a custom, which perhaps your Highness will follow, to afford him some reason for the outrage.”
“You smooth-tongued traitor,” quoth the Duke, with infinite malice, made angrier by his cousin's dignity. “You choicely-spoken villain! You would learn why you have been taken? Tell me, sir, what did you at Acquasparta on the morning of the Wednesday before Easter?”
The Count's impassive face remained inscrutable, a mask of patient wonder. By the sudden clenching of his hands alone did he betray how that thrust had smitten him, and his hands none there remarked. Fabrizio da Lodi, standing behind the Duke, went pale to the lips.
“I do not recall that I did anything there of much account,” he answered. “I breathed the good spring air in the woods.”
“And nothing else?” sneered Gian Maria.
“I can bethink me of little else that signifies. I met a lady there with whom I had some talk, a friar, a fool, a popinjay, and some soldiers. But,”—he shifted abruptly, his tone growing haughty—“whatever I did, I did as best seemed to me, and I have yet to learn that the Count of Aquila must give account of what he does and where he does it. You have not told me yet, sir, by what right, or fancied right, you hold me prisoner.”
“Have I not, indeed? See you no link between your offence and your presence near Sant' Angelo on that day?”