"I know that you did not--that you could not..."
And then I leaped to my feet. "And we sit talking here, whilst
this...whilst this...O God!" I sobbed. "We may yet be in time. To horse,
then! Let us away!"
He, too, came to his feet. "Ay, you are right. It but remains to remedy
the evil. Come, then. Anger shall mend my spent strength. It can be done
in three days. We will ride as none ever rode yet since the world began."
And we did--so desperately that by the morning of the third day, which was
a Sunday, we were in Forli (having crossed the Apennines at Arcangelo) and
by that same evening in Bologna. We had not slept and we had scarcely
rested since leaving Rome. We were almost dead from weariness.
Since such was my own case, what must have been Galeotto's? He was of
iron, it is true. But consider that he had ridden this way at as desperate
a pace already, to save me from the clutches of the Inquisition; and that,
scarce rested, he was riding north again. Consider this, and you will not
marvel that his weariness conquered him at last.
At the inn at Bologna where we dismounted, we found old Falcone awaiting
us. He had set out with his master to ride to Rome. But being himself
saddle-worn at the time, he had been unable to proceed farther than this,
and here Galeotto in his fierce impatience had left him, pursuing his way
alone.
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