“Is he dead?” asked Galeotto, his voice hard.
“No, no—not dead. But... But...” The plight of one usually so strong, so full of mastery and arrogance, was pitiful.
“But what?” demanded the condottiero. “Gesu! Am I a woman, or a man without sorrows, that you need to stand hesitating? Whatever it may be, speak, then, and tell me.”
“He is in the clutches of the Holy Office,” answered Cavalcanti miserably.
Galeotto looked at him, his pallor increasing. Then he sat down suddenly, and, elbows on knees, he took his head in his hands and spoke no word for a spell, during which time Falcone, still kneeling, looked from one to the other in an agony of apprehension and impatience to hear more.
Neither noticed the presence of the equerry; nor would it have mattered if they had, for he was trusty as steel, and they had no secrets from him.
At last, having gained some measure of self-control, Galeotto begged to know what had happened, and Cavalcanti related the event.
“What could I do? What could I do?” he cried when he had finished.
“You let them take him?” said Galeotto, like a man who repeats the thing he has been told, because he cannot credit it. “You let them take him?”
“What alternative had I?” groaned Cavalcanti, his face ashen and seared with pain.