“The tribunal will inform you,” replied the familiar—a tall, sallow, elderly man.
“The tribunal will need, then, to await some other opportunity,” said Cavalcanti suddenly. “Messer d'Anguissola is my guest; and my guests are not so rudely plucked forth from Pagliano.”
The Duke drew away, and leaned upon the arm of Cosimo, watching. Behind me in the gallery I heard a rustle of feminine gowns; but I did not turn to look. My eyes were upon the stern sable figure of the familiar.
“You will not be so ill-advised, my lord,” he was saying, “as to compel us to use force.”
“You will not, I trust, be so ill-advised as to attempt it,” laughed Cavalcanti, tossing his great head. “I have five score men-at-arms within these walls, Messer Black-clothes.”
The familiar bowed. “That being so, the force for to-day is yours, as you say. But I would solemnly warn you not to employ it contumaciously against the officers of the Holy Office, nor to hinder them in the duty which they are here to perform, lest you render yourself the object of their just resentment.”
Cavalcanti took a step forward, his face purple with anger that this tipstaff ruffian should take such a tone with him. But in that instant I seized his arm.
“It is a trap!” I muttered in his ear. “Beware!”
I was no more than in time. I had surprised upon Farnese's mottled face a sly smile—the smile of the cat which sees the mouse come venturing from its lair. And I saw the smile perish—to confirm my suspicions—when at my whispered words Cavalcanti checked in his rashness.
Still holding him by the arm, I turned to the familiar.