She rose, and coming close to him, she stood with one hand resting upon his shoulder, her eyes smiling down upon his upturned face.
"And shall such a trifle fret you—you who professed a week ago that you would this siege might last for ever?"
"Account me not fickle, anima mia," he answered her, and he kissed the ivory fingers that rested on his shoulder. "For that was before the world changed for me at the magic of your bidding. And so," he repeated, "I would I knew what is toward at Babbiano!"
"But why sigh over a wish so idle?" she exclaimed. "By what means can news reach you here of the happenings of the world without?"
He pondered a moment, seeking words in which to answer her. A score of times during that week had he been on the point of disclosing himself, of telling her who and what he was. Yet ever had he hesitated, putting off that disclosure until the season should appear more fitting. This he now considered the present. She trusted him, and there was no reason to remain silent longer. Perhaps already he had delayed too long, and so he was about to speak when she started from his side, and crossed hastily to the window, alarmed by the sound of approaching steps. A second later the door opened, and Gonzaga appeared.
A moment he hesitated in the doorway, looking from one to the other, and Francesco, lazily regarding him in his turn, noted that his cheeks were pale and that his eyes glittered like those of a man with the fever. Then he stepped forward, and, leaving the door open behind him, he advanced into the room.
"Monna Valentina, I have something to communicate to you." His voice shook slightly. "Messer—Francesco, will you give us leave?" And his feverish eyes moved to the open door with an eloquence that asked no words.
Francesco rose slowly, endeavouring to repress his surprise and glanced across at Valentina, as if awaiting her confirmation or refusal of this request that he should leave them.
"A communication for me?" she marvelled, a slight frown drawing her brows together. "Of what nature, sir?"
"Of a nature as important as it is private."
She raised her chin, and with a patient smile she seemed to beg of Francesco that he would suffer her to humour this mood of Gonzaga's. In quick obedience Francesco inclined his head.
"I shall be in my chamber until the hour of my rounds, Madonna," he announced, and with that took his departure.
Gonzaga attended him to the door, which he closed after him, and composing his features to an expression of sorrowing indignation, he came back and stood facing Valentina across the table.
"Madonna," he said, "I would to Heaven this communication I have to make to you came from other lips. In the light of what has passed—here at Roccaleone—through my folly—you—you may think my mission charged with vindictiveness."
Perplexity stared at him from her eyes.
"You fill me with alarm, my good Gonzaga," she answered him, though smiling.
"Alas it has fallen to my unfortunate lot to do more than that. I have made the discovery of as foul a piece of treachery here in your fortress as ever traitor hatched."
She looked at him more seriously now. The vehemence of his tone, and the suggestion of sorrow that ran through it and gave it so frank an accent, commanded her attention.
"Treachery!" she echoed, in a low voice, her eyes dilating. "And from whom?"
He hesitated a moment, then waving his hand:
"Will you not sit, Madonna?" he suggested nervously.
Mechanically she seated herself at the table, her eyes ever on his face, alarm spreading in her heart, born of suspense.
"Be seated too," she bade him, "and tell me."
He drew up a chair, sat down opposite to her, and taking a deep breath: "Heard you ever of the Count of Aquila?" he inquired.
"It were odd if I had not. The most valiant knight in Italy, fame dubs him."
His eyes were intently on her face, and what he saw there satisfied him.
"You know how he stands with the people of Babbiano?"
"I know that he is beloved of them."
"And do you know that he is a pretender to the throne of Babbiano? You will remember that he is cousin to Gian Maria?"
"His relationship to Gian Maria I know. That he pretends to the throne of Babbiano I was not aware. But whither are we straying?"
"We are not straying, Madonna," answered Gonzaga, "we are making a straight line for the very heart and soul of this treachery I spoke of. Would you believe me if I told you that here, in Roccaleone, we have an agent of the Count of Aquila one who in the Count's interest is protracting this siege with the pretended aim of driving Gian Maria off."
"Gonzaga——" she began, more than half guessing the drift of his explanation. But he interrupted her with unusual brusqueness.
"Wait, Madonna," he cried, his eyes upon her face, his hand imperiously raised. "Hear me out in patience. I am not talking idly. Of what I tell you I am armed with proof and witness. Such an agent of—of the Count's interests we have among us, and his true object in protracting this siege, and encouraging and aiding you in your resistance, is to outwear the patience of the people of Babbiano with Gian Maria, and drive them in the hour of their approaching peril from Caesar Borgia's armies to bestow the throne on Aquila."
"Where learnt you this foul lie?" she asked him, her cheeks crimson, her eyes on fire.
"Madonna," he said, in a patient voice, "this that you call a lie is already an accomplished fact. I am not laying before you the fruits of idle speculation. I have upon me the most positive proof that such a result as was hoped for has already been reached. Gian Maria has received from his subjects a notification that unless he is in his capital within three days from this, they will invest the Lord of Aquila with the ducal crown."
She rose, her anger well controlled, her voice calm.
"Where is this proof? No, no; I don't need to see it. Whatever it is, what shall it prove to me? That your words, in so far as the politics of Babbiano are concerned, may be true; our resistance of Gian Maria may indeed be losing him his throne and doing good service to the cause of the Count of Aquila; but how shall all this prove that lie of yours, that Messer Francesco—for it is clearly of him you speak—that Messer Francesco should be this agent of the Count's? It is a lie, Gonzaga, for which you shall be punished as you deserve."
She ceased, and stood awaiting his reply, and as she watched him his calm demeanour struck a chill into her heart. He was so confident, so full of assurance; and that, in Gonzaga, she had learnt to know meant a strong bulwark 'twixt himself and danger. He sighed profoundly.
"Madonna, these cruel words of yours do not wound me, since they are no more than I expected. But it will wound me—and sorely—if when you shall have learnt the rest you do not humbly acknowledge how you have wronged me, how grossly you have misjudged me. You think I come to you with evil in my heart, urged by a spirit of vindictiveness against Messer Francesco. Instead, I come to you with nothing but a profound sorrow that mine must be the voice to disillusion you, and a deep indignation against him that has so foully used you to his own ends. Wait, Madonna! In a measure you are right. It was not strictly true to say that this Messer Francesco is the agent of the Count of Aquila."
"Ah! You are recanting already?"
"Only a little—an insignificant little. He is no agent because——" He hesitated, and glanced swiftly up. Then he sighed, lowered his voice, and with consummately simulated sorrow, he concluded "Because he is, himself, Francesco del Falco. Count of Aquila."
She swayed a moment, and the colour died from her cheeks, leaving them ivory pale. She leaned heavily against the table, and turned over in her mind what she had heard. And then, as suddenly as it had gone, the blood rushed back into her face, mounting to her very temples.