There came a clatter of hooves under our windows, which stood open to the
tepid September morning, and soon there was old Busio ushering in an
officer of the Pontificals with a parchment tied in scarlet silk and sealed
with the arms of Piacenza.
Messer Fifanti took the package and weighed it in his hand, frowning.
Perhaps already some foreboding of the nature of its contents was in his
mind. Meanwhile, Giuliana poured wine for the officer, and Busio bore him
the cup upon a salver.
Fifanti ripped away silk and seals, and set himself to read. I can see him
now, standing near the window to which he had moved to gain a better light,
the parchment under his very nose, his short-sighted eyes screwed up as he
acquainted himself with the letter's contents. Then I saw him turn a
sickly leaden hue. He stared at the officer a moment and then at Giuliana.
But I do not think that he saw either of them. His look was the blank look
of one whose thoughts are very distant.
He thrust his hands behind him, and with head forward, in that curious
attitude so reminiscent of a bird of prey, he stepped slowly back to his
place at the table-head. Slowly his cheeks resumed their normal tint.
"Very well, sir," he said, addressing the officer. "Inform his excellency
that I shall obey the summons of the Duke's magnificence without delay.
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