“Aye that I am,” he answered sharply, intelligence returning to his glance, inquiry burning in it.
“And would the men, peradventure, be wearing the livery of the House of Santafior?”
His quick assent came almost choked in a company of oaths.
“Why then, if that be your quarry, you are but wasting time. Such a party passed us at the gallop about an hour ago. It would be an hour, would it not, Giacopo?”
“I should say an hour,” answered the lacquey dully.
“In what direction?” came Ramiro’s frenzied question. He doubted me no longer.
“In the direction of Fabriano I should say,” I answered. “Although it may well be that they were making for Sinigaglia. The road branches farther on.”
He waited for no more. Without word of thanks for the priceless information I had given him, he wheeled his horse, and shouted a hoarse command to his followers. A moment later and they were cantering past us, the snow flying beneath their hoofs; within five minutes the last of them had vanished round an angle of the road, and the only indication of the halt they had made was the broad path of dirty brown where their horses had crushed the snow.
I have been an actor in few more entertaining comedies than the cozening of Ser Ramiro, and a witness of nothing that afforded me at once so much relief and relish as his abrupt departure. I sank back on the cushions of my litter, and gave myself over to a burst of full-souled laughter which was interrupted ere it was half done by Giacopo, who had dismounted and approached me.
“You have fooled us finely,” said he, with venom.