“My lord,” cried out Ramiro, finding his tongue at last, “Madonna has misinformed you. I know nothing of who administered the sleeping-potion. Certainly it was not I. I heard a rumour that her body had been stolen, and—”
“Silence!” Cesare commanded sternly. “Did I question you, dog?”
His beautiful, terrible eyes fastened upon Ramiro in a glance that defied the man to answer him. Cowed, like a hound at sight of the whip, Ramiro whimpered into silence.
Cesare waved his hand in his direction, half-turning to the men-at-arms behind him.
“Take and disarm him,” was his passionless command. And while they were doing his bidding, he turned to me and ordered the executioner beside me to unbind my hands and set me at liberty.
“I owe you a heavy debt, Messer Biancomonte,” he said, without any warmth, even now that his voice was laden with a message of gratitude. “It shall be discharged. It is thanks to your daring and resource that the seneschal Mariani was able to bring me this letter, this piece of culminating proof against Ramiro del’ Orca. It is fortunate for you that Mariani was not put to it to ride to Faenza to find me, or else I am afraid we had not reached Cesena in time to save your life. I met him some leagues this side of Faenza, as I was on my way to Sinigaglia.”
He turned abruptly to Ramiro.
“In this letter which Vitelli wrote you,” said he, “it is suggested that there are others in the conspiracy. Tell me now, who are those others? See that you answer me with truth, for I shall compel proofs from you of such accusations as you may make.”
Ramiro looked at him with eyes rendered dull by agony. He moistened his lips with his tongue, and turning his head towards his men—
“Wine,” he gasped, from very force of habit. “A cup of wine!”