In the morning Francesco set out once more, accompanied by his servants, Fanfulla, and the fool. The latter was now so far restored as to be able to sit a mule, but lest the riding should over-tire him they proceeded at little more than an ambling pace along the lovely valleys of the Metauro. Thus it befell that when night descended it found them still journeying, and some two leagues distant from Urbino. Another league they travelled in the moonlight, and the fool was beguiling the time for them with a droll story culled from the bright pages of Messer Boccaccio, when of a sudden his sharp ears caught a sound that struck him dumb in the middle of a sentence.
“Are you faint?” asked Francesco, turning quickly towards him, and mindful of the fellow's sore condition.
“No, no,” answered the fool, with a readiness that dispelled the Count's alarm on that score. “I thought I heard a sound of marching in the distance.”
“The wind in the trees, Peppino,” explained Fanfulla.
“I do not think——” He stopped short and listened and now they all heard it, for it came wafted to them on a gust of the fitful breeze that smote their faces.
“You are right,” said Francesco. “It is the tramp of men. But what of that, Peppe? Men will march in Italy. Let us hear the end of your story.”
“But who should march in Urbino, and by night?” the fool persisted.
“Do I know or do I care?” quoth the Count. “Your story, man.”
For all that he was far from satisfied, the fool resumed his narrative. But he no longer told it with his former irresistible humour. His mind was occupied with that sound of marching, which came steadily nearer. At length he could endure it no longer, and the apathy of his companions fired him openly to rebel.
“My lord,” he cried, turning to the Count, and again leaving his story interrupted, “they are all but upon us.”