“Gennaro, I can barely see thee.”
“Orsini, Orsini, here.”
“Methinks this is no jest,” cried another.
And the six came close together. Amongst them was no Gubetta.
A moment or two of bated breath, still the lights are fading. Another moment, and the room is almost dark as midnight.
“Let us fly.”
They drew to the great door, sped rapidly up the steps, and then the whole six stood motionless, their hands pressing against the unyielding doors.
They came down from the steps, but the next moment the doors swung open, and as they turned towards them, thinking, perhaps, for a moment, that it was a jest—behold there stood Lucrezia Borgia, looking down on them, proud, triumphant—a demon. Behind her were men-at-arms, ready to do her utmost will.
“Lost!—lost!—lost!”
“Yes, Signors. Lost. You gave me a ball at Venice. In return I give you a supper here in Ferrara. For you, my guests, I have prepared five shrouds, which shall enwrap you when the poison now coursing through your blood, hath diligently done its duty.”