“It would seem he is.”
“By the Virgin's Ring of Perugia!” spluttered Gian Maria in increased dismay. “Do you suggest that they fled together?”
“My lord!” Guidobaldo's voice rang sharp and threatening. “It is of my niece that you are speaking. She took this gentleman with her just as she took three of her ladies and a page or two, to form such attendance as befits her birth.”
Gian Maria took a turn in the apartment, a frown wrinkling his brow, and his lips pressed tight. Guidobaldo's proud words by no means convinced him. But the one preponderating desire in his heart just then was to humble the girl who had dared to flout him, to make her bend her stubborn neck. At last:
“I may indeed become the laughing-stock of Italy,” he muttered, in a concentrated voice, “but I shall carry my resolve through, and my first act upon entering Roccaleone will be to hang this knave Gonzaga from its highest turret.”
That very day Gian Maria began his preparations for the expedition against Roccaleone, and word of it was carried by Fanfulla to Francesco—for the latter had left his quarters at the palace upon hearing of Gian Maria's coming, and was now lodging at the sign of the “Sun.”
Upon hearing the news he swore a mighty oath in which he consigned his cousin to the devil, by whom, in that moment, he pronounced him begotten.
“Do you think,” he asked, when he was calmer, “that this man Gonzaga is her lover?”
“It is more than I can say,” answered Fanfulla. “There is the fact that she fled with him. Though when I questioned Peppe on this same subject he first laughed the notion to scorn, and then grew grave. 'She loves him not, the popinjay,' he said; 'but he loves her, or I am blind else, and he's a villain, I know.'”
Francesco stood up, his face mighty serious, and his dark eyes full of uneasy thought.