Ten minutes later we were riding north again, and all that night we rode, along the endless Aemilian Way, pausing for no more than a draught of wine from time to time, and munching a loaf as we rode. We crossed the Po, and kept steadily on, taking fresh horses when we could, until towards sunset a turn in the road brought Pagliano into our view—grey and lichened on the crest of its smooth emerald hill.
The dusk was falling and lights began to gleam from some of the castle windows when we brought up in the shadow of the gateway.
A man-at-arms lounged out of the guardhouse to inquire our business.
“Is Madonna Bianca wed yet?” was the breathless greeting I gave him.
He peered at me, and then at Falcone, and he swore in some surprise.
“Well, returned my lord! Madonna Bianca? The nuptials were celebrated to-day. The bride has gone.”
“Gone?” I roared. “Gone whither, man?”
“Why, to Piacenza—to my Lord Cosimo's palace there. They set out some three hours since.”
“Where is your lord?” I asked him, flinging myself from the saddle.
“Within doors, most noble.”