“The same, my lord,” said Cavalcanti, adding generously—“Giovanni d'Anguissola was my friend.”
“It is a friendship that does you little credit, sir,” was the harsh answer. “It is not well to befriend the enemies of God.”
Was it possible that I had heard aright? Had this human foulness dared to speak of God?
“That is a matter upon which I will not dispute with a guest,” said Cavalcanti with an urbanity of tone belied by the anger that flashed from his brown eyes.
At the time I thought him greatly daring, little dreaming that, forewarned of the Duke's coming, his measures were taken, and that one blast from the silver whistle that hung upon his breast would have produced a tide of men-at-arms that would have engulfed and overwhelmed Messer Pier Luigi and his suite.
Farnese dismissed the matter with a casual laugh. And then a lazy, drawling voice—a voice that once had been sweetest music to my ears, but now was loathsome as the croaking of Stygian frogs—addressed me.
“Why, here is a great change, sir saint! We had heard you had turned anchorite; and behold you in cloth of gold, shining as you would out-dazzle Phoebus.”
I stood palely before her, striving to keep the loathing from my face, and I was conscious that Bianca had suddenly turned and was regarding us with eyes of grave concern.
“I like you better for the change,” pursued Giuliana. “And I vow that you have grown at least another inch. Have you no word for me, Agostino?”
I was forced to answer her. “I trust that all is well with you, Madonna,” I said.