“These to the Most Noble Agostino d'Anguissola, at Pagliano.
Quickly.
Quickly.
Quickly.”
The hand was Galeotto's. I tore it open. It contained but two lines:
“Upon your life do not fail to obey the Imperial summons. Send Falcone to me here at once.” And it was signed—“GALEOTTO.”
“It is well,” I said to the herald, “I will not fail to attend.”
I bade the seneschal who stood in attendance to give the messenger refreshment ere he left, and upon that dismissed him.
When we were alone I turned to Bianca. “Galeotto bids me go,” I said. “There is surely hope.”
She took the note, and passing a hand over her eyes, as if to clear away some mist that obscured her vision, she read it. Then she considered the curt summons that gave no clue, and lastly looked at me.
“It is the end,” I said. “One way or the other, it is the end. But for Galeotto's letter, I think I should have refused to obey, and made myself an outlaw indeed. As it is—there is surely hope!”
“O, Agostino, surely, surely!” she cried. “Have we not suffered enough? Have we not paid enough already for the happiness that should be ours? To-morrow I shall go with you to Piacenza.”