“By the Host! It is a shameful thing,” he cried out at last. “This poor lady so beset on every hand by a parcel of villains, each more unscrupulous than the other. Fanfulla, send for Peppe. We must despatch the fool to her with warning of Gian Maria's coming, and warning, too, against this man of Mantua she has fled with.”
“Too late,” answered Fanfulla. “The fool departed this morning for Roccaleone, to join his patrona.”
Francesco looked his dismay.
“She will be undone,” he groaned. “Thus between the upper and the nether stone—between Gian Maria and Romeo Gonzaga. Gesù! she will be undone! And she so brave and so high-spirited!”
He moved slowly to the casement, and stood staring at the windows across the street, on which the setting sun fell in a ruddy glow. But it was not the windows that he saw. It was a scene in the woods at Acquasparta on that morning after the mountain fight; a man lying wounded in the bracken, and over him a gentle lady bending with eyes of pity and solicitude. Often since had his thoughts revisited that scene, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a sigh, and sometimes with both at once.
He turned suddenly upon Fanfulla. “I will go myself,” he announced.
“You?” echoed Fanfulla. “But the Venetians?”
By a gesture the Count signified how little the Venetians weighed with him when compared with the fortunes of this lady.
“I am going to Roccaleone,” he insisted, “now—at once.” And striding to the door he beat his hands together and called Lanciotto.
“You said, Fanfulla, that in these days there are no longer maidens held in bondage to whom a knight-errant may lend aid. You were at fault, for in Monna Valentina we have the captive maiden, in my cousin the dragon, in Gonzaga another, and in me the errant knight who is destined—I hope—to save her.”