Take Falcone. Listen, there are three
score men of mine at Pagliano who will follow you to Hell at a word that
Falcone shall speak to them from me. About it, then, and save her. But
wait, boy! Do no violence to Farnese, if you can help it."
"But if I can't?" I asked.
"If you can't--no matter. But endeavour not to offer him any hurt! Leave
that to me--anon when all is ripe for it. To-day it would be premature,
and...and we ...we should be...crushed by the..." His speech trailed off
into incoherent mutterings; his eyelids dropped, and he was fast asleep
again.
Ten minutes later we were riding north again, and all that night we rode,
along the endless Aemilian Way, pausing for no more than a draught of wine
from time to time, and munching a loaf as we rode. We crossed the Po, and
kept steadily on, taking fresh horses when we could, until towards sunset a
turn in the road brought Pagliano into our view--grey and lichened on the
crest of its smooth emerald hill.
The dusk was falling and lights began to gleam from some of the castle
windows when we brought up in the shadow of the gateway.
A man-at-arms lounged out of the guardhouse to inquire our business.
"Is Madonna Bianca wed yet?" was the breathless greeting I gave him.
He peered at me, and then at Falcone, and he swore in some surprise.
Pages:
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421