“If I am to apprehend that you have had me brought here with this indignity to set me riddles for your amusement, I am enlightened and yet amazed. I am no court buffoon.”
“Words, words,” snapped the Duke. “Do not think to beguile me with them.” With a short laugh he turned from Francesco to those upon the dais. “You will be marvelling, sirs, and you, my lady mother, upon what grounds I have had this traitor seized. You shall learn. On the night of the Tuesday before Easter seven traitors met at Sant' Angelo to plot my overthrow. Of those, the heads of four may be seen on the walls of Babbiano now; the other three made off, but there stands one of them—the one that was to have occupied this throne after they had unseated me.”
The eyes of all were now upon the young Count, whilst his own glance strayed to the face of Lodi, on which there was written a consternation so great that it must have betrayed him had the Duke but chanced to look his way. A pause ensued which none present dared to break. Gian Maria seemed to await an answer from Francesco; but Francesco stood impassively regarding him, and made no sign that he would speak. At length, unable longer to endure the silence:
“E dunque?” cried the Duke. “Have you no answer?”
“I would submit,” returned Francesco, “that I have heard no question. I heard a wild statement, extravagant and mad, the accusation of one demented, a charge of which no proofs can be forthcoming, else I take it you had not withheld them. I ask you, sirs, and you, Madonna,” he continued, turning to the others, “has his Highness said anything to which an answer can by any means be necessary?”
“Is it proofs you lack?” cried Gian Maria, but less confidently than hitherto, and, so, less fiercely. A doubt had arisen in his mind born of this strange calm on the part of Francesco—a calm that to Gian Maria's perceptions seemed hardly the garb of guilt, but belonged rather to one who is assured that no peril threatens him. “Is it proofs you lack?” quoth the Duke again, and then with the air of a man launching an unanswerable question: “How came you by the wound you had that day in the woods?”
A smile quivered on Francesco's face, and was gone.
“I asked for proofs, not questions,” he protested wearily. “What shall it prove if I had a hundred wounds?”
“Prove?” echoed the Duke, less and less confident of his ground, fearing already that he had perhaps gone too fast and too far upon the road of his suspicions. “It proves to me, when coupled with your presence there, that you were in the fight the night before.”
Francesco stirred at that. He sighed and smiled at once. Then assuming a tone of brisk command: