"It's a lie!" she blazed at him; "a lie for which you shall be whipped."
He shrugged his shoulders, and cast Francesco's letter on to the table.
"There, Madonna, is something that will prove all that I have said."
She eyed the paper coldly. Her first impulse was to call Fortemani and carry out her threat of having Gonzaga whipped, refusing so much as to see this thing that he so confidently termed a proof; but it may be that his confidence wrought upon her, touching a chord of feminine curiosity. That he was wrong she never doubted; but that he believed himself right she was also assured, and she wondered what this thing might be that had so convinced him. Still she did not touch it, but asked in an indifferent voice:
"What is it?"
"A letter that was brought hither to-night by a man who swam the moat, and whom I have ordered to be detained in the armoury tower. It is from Fanfulla degli Arcipreti to the Count of Aquila. If your memory will bear you back to a certain day at Acquasparta, you may recall that Fanfulla was the name of a very gallant cavalier who addressed this Messer Francesco with marked respect."
She took that backward mental glance he bade her, and remembered. Then she remembered, too, how that very evening Francesco had said that he was fretting for news of Babbiano, and that when she had asked how he hoped that news could reach him at Roccaleone, Gonzaga had entered before he answered her. Indeed, he had seemed to hesitate upon that answer. A sudden chill encompassed her at that reflection. Oh, it was impossible, absurd! And yet she took the letter from the table. With knit brows she read it, whilst Gonzaga watched her, scarce able to keep the satisfaction from gleaming in his eyes.
She read it slowly, and as she read her face grew deathly pale. When she had finished she stood silent for a long minute, her eyes upon the signature and her mind harking back to what Gonzaga had said, and drawing comparison between that and such things as had been done and uttered, and nowhere did she find the slightest gleam of that discrepancy which so ardently she sought.
It was as if a hand were crushing the heart in her bosom. This man whom she had trusted, this peerless champion of her cause, to be nothing but a self-seeker, an intriguer, who, to advance his own ends, had made a pawn of her. She thought of how for a moment he had held her in his arms and kissed her, and at that her whole soul revolted against the notion that here was no more than treachery.
"It's all a plot against him!" she cried, her cheeks scarlet again. "It's an infamous thing of your devising, Messer Gonzaga, an odious lie!"
"Madonna, the man that brought the letter is still detained. Confront him with Messer Francesco; or apply the question to him, and learn his master's true name and station. As for the rest, if that letter is insufficient proof for you, I beg that you will look back at facts. Why should he lie to you? and say that his name was Francesco Franceschi? Why should he have urged you—against all reason—to remain here, when he brought you news that Gian Maria was advancing? Surely had he but sought to serve you he had better accomplished this by placing his own castle of Aquila at your disposal, and leaving here an empty nest for Gian Maria, as I urged."
She sank to a chair, a fever in her mind.
"I tell you, Madonna, there is no mistake. What I have said is true. Another three days would he have held Gian Maria here, whilst if you gave him that letter, it is odds he would slip away in the night of to-morrow, that he might be in Babbiano on the third day to take the throne his cousin treats so lightly. Sainted God!" he cried out. "I think this is the most diabolically treacherous plot that ever mind of man conceived and human heartlessness executed."
"But—but——" she faltered, "all this is presupposing that Messer Francesco is indeed the Count of Aquila. May there—may it not be that this letter was meant for some other destination?"
"Will you confront this messenger with the Count?"
"With the Count?" she inquired dully. "With Messer Francesco, you mean?" She shuddered, and with strange inconsistence: "No," she said, in a choking voice, her lip twisting oddly at the corner. "I do not wish to see his face again."
A light gleamed in Gonzaga's eye, and was extinguished on the instant.
"Best make certain," he suggested, rising. "I have ordered Fortemani to bring Lanciotto here. He will be waiting now, without. Shall I admit them?"
She nodded without speaking, and Gonzaga opened the door, and called Fortemani. A voice answered him from the gloom of the banqueting-hall.
"Bring Lanciotto here," he commanded.
When Francesco's servant entered, a look of surprise on his face at these mysterious proceedings, it was Valentina who questioned him, and that in a voice as cold as though the issue concerned her no whit.
"Tell me, sirrah," she said, "and as you value your neck, see that you answer me truly—what is your master's name?"
Lanciotto looked from her to Gonzaga, who stood by, a cynical curl on his sensual lips.
"Answer Monna Valentina," the courtier urged him. "State your master's true name and station."
"But, lady," began Lanciotto, bewildered.
"Answer me!" she stormed, her small clenched hands beating the table in harsh impatience. And Lanciotto, seeing no help for it, answered:
"Messer Francesco del Falco, Count of Aquila."
Something that began in a sob and ended in a laugh burst from the lips of Valentina. Ercole's eyes were wide at the news, and he might have gone the length of interposing a question, when Gonzaga curtly bade him go to the armoury tower, and bring thence the soldier and the man Gonzaga had left in his care.
"I will leave no shadow of doubt in your mind, Madonna," he said in explanation.
They waited in silence—for Lanciotto's presence hindered conversation—until Ercole returned accompanied by the man-at-arms and Zaccaria, who had now changed his raiment. Before they could question the new-comer, such questions as they might have put were answered by the greeting that passed between him and his fellow-servant Lanciotto.
Gonzaga turned to Valentina. She sat very still, her tawny head bowed and in her eyes a look of sore distress. And in that instant a brisk step sounded without. The door was thrust open, and Francesco himself stood upon the threshold, with Peppe's alarmed face showing behind him. Gonzaga instinctively drew back a pace, and his countenance lost some of its colour.
At sight of Francesco, Zaccaria rushed forward and bowed profoundly.
"My lord!" he greeted him.
And if one little thing had been wanting to complete the evidence against the Count, that thing, by an odd mischance, Francesco himself seemed to supply. The strange group in that dining-room claiming his attention, and the portentous air that hung about those present, confirmed the warning Peppe had brought him that something was amiss. He disregarded utterly his servant's greeting, and with eyes of a perplexity that may have worn the look of alarm he sought the face of Valentina.
She rose upon the instant, an angry red colouring her cheeks. His very glance, it seemed, was become an affront unbearable after what had passed—for the memory of his kiss bit like a poisoned fang into her brain. An odd laugh broke from her. She made a gesture towards Francesco.
"Fortemani, you will place the Count of Aquila under arrest," she commanded, in a stern, steady voice, "and as you value your life you will see that he does not elude you."
The great bully hesitated. His knowledge of Francesco's methods was not encouraging.
"Madonna!" gasped Francesco, his bewilderment increasing.
"Did you hear me, Fortemani," she demanded. "Remove him."
"My lord?" cried Lanciotto, laying hand to his sword his eyes upon his master's, ready to draw and lay about him at a glance of bidding.
"Sh! Let be," answered Franeesco coldly. "Here, Messer Fortemani." And he proffered his dagger, the only weapon that he carried.