Thus it fell out that we were left in peace and not made to suffer from my
father's rebellion. For that, he himself should suffer when taken. But
taken he never was. From time to time we had news of him. Now he was in
Venice, now in Milan, now in Naples; but never long in any place for his
safety's sake. And then one night, six years later, a scarred and grizzled
veteran, coming none knew whence, dropped from exhaustion in the courtyard
of our citadel, whither he had struggled. Some went to minister to him,
and amongst these there was a groom who recognized him.
"It is Messer Falcone!" he cried, and ran to bear the news to my mother,
with whom I was at table at the time. With us, too, was Fra Gervasio, our
chaplain.
It was grim news that old Falcone brought us. He had never quitted my
father in those six weary years of wandering until now that my father was
beyond the need of his or any other's service.
There had been a rising and a bloody battle at Perugia, Falcone informed
us. An attempt had been made to overthrow the rule there of Pier Luigi
Farnese, Duke of Castro, the pope's own abominable son. For some months my
father had been enjoying the shelter of the Perugians, and he had repaid
their hospitality by joining them and bearing arms with them in the
ill-starred blow they struck for liberty.
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