"Never fear, Jacopo," I answered, "he is no monk, as I well know, and his only chance was to escape as he did. He will hark back soon enough to Florence. Such hawks as he do not fly far from their eyries."
And in this I proved to be right, and the library scribe was never seen by me again.
So we kept to our way, deciding to rest by day on the banks of the Evola, to which we came in the early morning. Here we concealed our horses in the forest which fringed the banks, and the tireless Jacopo, leaving me to watch the cattle, proceeded on foot to a small hamlet he knew of, returning in about an hour with the materials for a substantial meal, and a small skin of wine. In order not to be taken by surprise by the neighing of our horses, which would assuredly discover us if other riders passed, we hobbled them in a secure place, and sought a safe retreat for ourselves, almost half way up the low hill which bounded the river at the point where we halted. Here we spent a restful day, the only incident being the passing of a fine body of men-at-arms across the Evola. From the double-headed lion on their standard I perceived they were part of the condotta of Colleoni, a devoted adherent of the Borgia, and it was fortunate that we did not meet them or it would have gone hard with us, for I was known personally to Colleoni and most of his officers, the free-lance having changed sides after Fornovo, ostensibly because he said it was against his conscience to war with the Pope; but in reality being bribed by an immediate present of a fief in the Campagna, and the promise of the lordship of Bergamo, which, although his son obtained it, he himself never enjoyed. So much for the two-headed lion which crossed our path as we lay hidden in the shade of the trees. Our horses also being actively employed in cropping the rich turf in the hollow where they were tethered, behaved themselves excellently, with the result that the long line of men-at-arms passed on and out of sight, without doing us any harm.
In this manner we continued our journey, halting by day and travelling by night, and finally reached Leghorn in safety. Here we took passage in a ship bound for Rome; but were compelled to wait two days in Leghorn, as the master was not ready to sail at once. At last, all things being arranged, we got our horses and ourselves aboard, and put out to sea with a fair wind. The master of the ship had sailed with Messer Columbus to the New World, and lost no time in giving us the history of his adventures, which were in truth marvellous beyond imagination. I listened with a smooth face, and the good man no doubt thought that I believed his stories. In this, however, he was mistaken, nevertheless they were diverting in the extreme. Jacopo was overcome by the sickness of the sea, and flung himself down in a corner on the deck of the ship from which spot nothing would induce him to move. At every lurch he threw out a prayer which ended in a groan, and so great was his distress, that as he afterwards stated, he would have sold his soul to Satan for a paul, if only to obtain an hour's relief. As for me, I was well, having had some experience of the ocean before, when employed by the Most Serene Republic for service against the Turk, and found contentment in the master's stories, and in pacing up and down watching such things as came under my view. I had plenty of opportunity for reflection on the voyage, and came to the conclusion that on delivering my letter to the Cardinal at Rome, I would seek out Bayard if he were there, lay my story before him, and beseech his help to enable me to recover myself.
At last, one fine day, we reached Ostia, and there disembarked after bidding farewell to the master, and set out on our way to Rome. Jacopo recovered his spirits as his foot touched land, and though the ruddiness of his cheek had paled a little, he was quite himself again by the time we crossed the Stagno di Ostia. Finally we came in full view of the Eternal City, and towards the afternoon, having pressed along at a good pace, our jaded horses brought us before the Gate of St. Paul.
CHAPTER XIII.
[ROME.]
As we rode up to the ruinous stretch of the battered wall, and saw before us the gate, lying open against the mottled green and grey high-ground of the Aventine, that old hill, covered with straggling and unkempt vineyards, and studded with the walls of monasteries, I was moved more than I can tell, for I was about to realise a dream of my life, and put foot once again in the place of my birth, a spot not only bound to me by that tie, but sacred with the hundred legends of my forefathers' history, men who had for centuries played so great a part in its fate, until our house was cast forth by the mother-city, to wander as exiles over the land. It is true that since the days of my childhood I had not seen Rome, it is true that such memories of it as I had were dim and misty, and that to recall them was like trying to bring back before one's eyes, when awake, the vague but pleasant visions of a delightful dream; nevertheless my heart filled with a strange joy, and my pulse began to beat more rapidly, as each stride of my horse brought me nearer home. In short, I was a Roman come back to Rome, and in these words sum up my feelings.
Filled with such thoughts, I tightened the reins half unconsciously, and my horse, doubtless upset by his voyage, and the hard going from Ostia, very willingly slackened his pace to a walk. Jacopo, as in duty bound, followed my example, and immediately began to buzz into speech.
"It is nearly six years since I last saw that gate, excellency, when with Count Carlo Orsini we rode up, just as it was closed behind Cesare Borgia."