“Madam mother,” I said bitterly, “you do a monstrous thing. You usurp the power that is mine, and you deliver me—me, your son—to the gallows. I hope that, hereafter, when you come to realize to the full your deed, you will be able to give your conscience peace.”
“My first duty is to God,” she answered; and to that pitiable answer there was nothing to be rejoined.
So I turned my shoulder to her and stood waiting, Fra Gervasio beside me, clenching his hands in his impotence and mute despair. And then an approaching clank of mail heralded the coming of the captain.
Rinolfo held the door, and Cosimo d'Anguissola entered with a firm, proud tread, two of his men, following at his heels.
He wore a buff-coat, under which no doubt there would be a shirt of mail; his gorget and wristlets were of polished steel, and his headgear was a steel cap under a cover of peach-coloured velvet. Thigh-boots encased his legs; sword and dagger hung in the silver carriages at his belt; his handsome, aquiline face was very solemn.
He bowed profoundly to my mother, who rose to respond, and then he flashed me one swift glance of his piercing eyes.
“I deplore my business here,” he announced shortly. “No doubt it will be known to you already.” And he looked at me again, allowing his eyes to linger on my face.
“I am ready, sir,” I said.
“Then we had best be going, for I understand that none could be less welcome here than I. Yet in this, Madonna, let me assure you that there is nothing personal to myself. I am the slave of my office. I do but perform it.”
“So much protesting where no doubt has been expressed,” said Fra Gervasio, “in itself casts a doubt upon your good faith. Are you not Cosimo d'Anguissola—my lord's cousin and heir?”