“But here is death,” he almost moaned.
“Lord of Pesaro,” I reminded him, “your mercenaries are under arms by your command, and your knights are joining them. They wait for the fulfilment of your promise to lead them out against the enemy. Shall you fail them in such an hour as this?”
He sank, limp as an empty scabbard, to a chair.
“I dare not go. It is death,” he answered miserably.
“And what but death is it to remain here?” I asked, torturing him with more zest than ever he had experienced over the agonies of some poor victim on the rack. “In bearing yourself gallantly there lies a slender chance for you. Your people seeing you in arms and ready to defend them may yet be moved to a return of loyalty.”
“A fig for their loyalty,” was his peevish, craven answer. “What shall it avail me when I’m slain!”
God! was there ever such a coward as this, such a weak-souled, water-hearted dastard?
“But you may not be slain,” I urged him. And then I sounded a fresh note. “Bethink you of Madonna Paola and of the brave things you promised her.”
He flushed a little, then paled again, then sat very still. Shame had touched him at last, yet its grip was not enough to make a man of him. A moment he remained irresolute, whilst that shame fought a hard battle with his fears.
But those fears proved stronger in the end, and his shame was overthrown by them.