“A trusty weapon with which to combat tyranny,” said I.
“Well? And then?” she questioned. “Such a state of things cannot endure for ever. It must end some day.”
I shook my head, and I smiled down upon her a smile that was very full of confidence.
“That day will never dawn, unless the Lord Giovanni’s impatience transcends all bounds.”
She looked at me, a puzzled glance in her eyes, a bewildered expression knitting her fine brows.
“I do not take your meaning, my friend,” she complained.
“Then mark the enucleation. I will expound this meaning of mine through the medium of a parable. In Babylon of old, there dwelt a king whose name was Belshazzar, who, having fallen into habits of voluptuousness and luxury, was so enslaved by them as to feast and make merry whilst a certain Darius, King of the Medes, was marching in arms against his capital. At a feast one night the fingers of a man’s hand were seen to write upon the wall, and the words they wrote were a belated warning: ‘Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.’”
She looked at me, her eyes round with inquiry, and a faint smile of uncertainty on her lips.
“Let me confess that your elucidation helps me but little.”
“Ponder it, Madonna,” I urged her. “Substitute Giovanni Sforza for Belshazzar, Cesare Borgia for King Darius, and you have the key to my parable.”