Now, scarcely had he drawn rein there when through a door at the far end appeared the gigantic figure of Fortemani, half-clad and sword in hand. At sight of Francesco the fellow leaped down a half-dozen steps, and advanced towards him with a burst of oaths.
“To me!” he shouted, in a voice that might have waked the dead. “Olá! Olá! What devil's work is this? How come you here? By whose orders was the bridge let down?”
“By the orders of Monna Valentina's captain,” answered Francesco, wondering what madman might be this.
“Captain?” cried the other, coming to a standstill and his face turning purple. “Body of Satan! What captain? I am captain here.”
The Count looked him over in surprise.
“Why, then,” said he, “you are the very man I seek. I congratulate you on the watch you keep, Messer Capitano. Your castle is so excellently patrolled that had I been minded for a climb I had scaled your walls and got within your gates without arousing any of your slumbering sentries.”
Fortemani eyed him with a lowering glance. The prosperity of the past four days had increased the insolence inherent in the man.
“Is that your affair?” he growled menacingly. “You are over-bold, sir stranger, to seek a quarrel with me, and over-pert to tell me how I shall discharge my captaincy. By the Passion! You shall be punished.”
“Punished—I?” echoed Francesco, on whose brow there now descended a scowl as black as Ercole's own.
“Aye, punished, young sir. Ercole Fortemani is my name.”