Among the guests was Gennaro, young and beautiful as the nights of Italy. With him was one of the great Orsini, even younger than himself, and far gayer. Nay, he was but a boy. These two were ever together, in peace or on the battle-field, at fêtes, or quietly at home.
So now amidst the group wherever walked Orsini, Gennaro had a place. These two as they sauntered along with their friends, all either carrying their masks in their hands, or else tied to their belts, these two were deploring, and being pitied, for they were to leave Venice on the morrow.
“Alas!” said one, “You will never like Ferrara, as you like the poorest street in Venice.”
“But, still,” cried another, “’tis something to form part of an ambassador’s suite.”
“Faith,” cried a third, “I would sooner be as I am and in Venice.”
“Let me tell you Signors,” said a fourth, who was called Gubetta, a Spaniard, and not in good repute, “let me tell you the court of Alfonzo is superb, and as for Lucrezia Borgia”—
“What!” cried one, “name her, here, at a fête?”
“Pray ye be silent,” cried another.
“The Borgia,” said a third, “I abhor her very name.”
“In faith,” added another, “’twould not be saying much for thee to say that thou lovdst her.”