“What is it?” cried Bianca, quivering in my arms. “Are... are they fighting?”
“I do not think so, sweet,” I answered her. “We are in great strength. Have no fear.”
And then Falcone came in again.
“The Lord of Pagliano is raging like a madman,” he said. “We had best be getting away or we shall have a brush with the Captain of Justice.”
Supporting Bianca, I led her from that chamber.
“Where are we going?” she asked me.
“Home to Pagliano,” I answered her, and with that answer comforted that sorely tried maid.
We found the antechamber in wreckage. The great chandelier had been dragged from the ceiling, pictures were slashed and cut to ribbons, the arras had been torn from the walls and the costly furniture was reduced to fire-wood; the double-windows opening to the balcony stood wide, and not a pane of glass left whole, the fragments lying all about the place.
Thus, it seemed, childishly almost, had Cavalcanti vented his terrible rage, and I could well conceive what would have befallen any of the Duke's people upon whom in that hour he had chanced. I did not know then that the poor pimp who had acted as our guide was hanging from the balcony dead, nor that his had been the horrible scream I had heard.
On the stairs we met the raging Cavalcanti reascending, the stump of his shivered sword in his hand.