“I am,” said he, “yet that has no part in this, sir friar.”
“Then let it have part. Let it have the part it should have. Will you bear one of your own name and blood to the gallows? What will men say of that when they perceive your profit in the deed?”
Cosimo looked him boldly between the eyes, his hawk-face very white.
“Sir priest, I know not by what right you address me so. But you do me wrong. I am the Podesta of Piacenza bound by an oath that it would dishonour me to break; and break it I must or else fulfil my duty here. Enough!” he added, in his haughty, peremptory fashion. “Ser Agostino, I await your pleasure.”
“I will appeal to Rome,” cried Fra Gervasio, now beside himself with grief.
Cosimo smiled darkly, pityingly. “It is to be feared that Rome will turn a deaf ear to appeals on behalf of the son of Giovanni d'Anguissola.”
And with that he motioned me to precede him. Silently I pressed Fra Gervasio's hand, and on that departed without so much as another look at my mother, who sat there a silent witness of a scene which she approved.
The men-at-arms fell into step, one on either side of me, and so we passed out into the courtyard, where Cosimo's other men were waiting, and where was gathered the entire family of the castle—a gaping, rather frightened little crowd.
They brought forth a mule for me, and I mounted. Then suddenly there was Fra Gervasio at my side again.
“I, too, am going hence,” he said. “Be of good courage, Agostino. There is no effort I will not make on your behalf.” In a broken voice he added his farewells ere he stood back at the captain's peremptory bidding. The little troop closed round me, and thus, within a couple of hours of my coming, I departed again from Mondolfo, surrendered to the hangman by the pious hands of my mother, who on her knees, no doubt, would be thanking God for having afforded her the grace to act in so righteous a manner.