“Let me! Father, let me!”
He looked into my face and smiled, and the steel-coloured eyes seemed moist and singularly soft.
“My son!” he said, and his voice was gentle and soothing as a woman's caress.
“My father!” I answered him, a knot in my throat.
“Alas, that I must deny you the first thing you ask me by that name,” he said. “But the challenge is given and accepted. Do you take Bianca to the Duomo and pray that right may be done and God's will prevail. Gervasio shall go with you.”
And then came an interruption from Gonzaga.
“My lord,” he said, “will you determine when and where this battle is to be fought?”
“Upon the instant,” answered my father, “on the banks of Po with a score of lances to keep the lists.”
Gonzaga looked at Cosimo. “Do you agree to this?”
“It cannot be too soon for me,” replied the quivering Cosimo, black hatred in his glance.