One little thing there was might save me, Ramiro had said.  But I had shut the thought out of my mind to keep me from utter distraction.  The only little thing in which I held that my salvation could lie would be in the miraculous arrival of Cesare Borgia, and of that not the faintest hope existed.  If the greatest luck attended Mariani’s errand and the greatest speed were made by the Duke once he received the letter, he could not reach Cesena in less than another eight hours.  And another eight minutes, to reckon by the swift sinking of the sun would see the time appointed for my hanging.  I thought of Joshua in that grim hour, and in a mood that approached the whimsical I envied him his gift.  If I could have stayed the setting of the sun, and held it where it was till midnight, all might yet be well if Mariani had been diligent and Cesare swift.

The key grating in the lock put an end to my vague musings, and reminded me of the fact that I had neglected to employ that last hour as would have become a good son of Mother Church.  For an instant I believe that my heart turned me to thoughts of God, and sent up a prayer for mercy for my poor sinful soul.  Then the door swung wide.  Two halberdiers and a carnifex in his odious leathern apron stood before me.  Clearly Ramiro sought to be exact, and to have me hanging the instant the sun should vanish.

“It is time,” said one of the soldiers, whilst the executioner, stepping into my chamber, pinioned my wrists behind me, and retaining hold of the cord bade me march.  He followed, holding that slender cord, and so, like a beast to the shambles, went I.

Once more they led me into the hall, where the shadows were lengthening in dark contrast to the splashes of sunlight that lingered on the floor, and whose blood-red hue was deepened by the gules of the windows through which it was filtered.

Ramiro was waiting for me, and six of his officers were in attendance.  But, for once, there were no men-at-arms at hand.  On a chair, the one usually occupied by Ramiro, himself, sat Madonna Paola, still in her torn and bedraggled raiment, her face white, her eyes wild as they had been when first she had been haled into Ramiro’s presence, some two hours ago, and her features so rigidly composed that it told the tale of the awful self-control she must be exerting—­a self-control that might end with a sudden snap that would plunge her into madness.

A wild rage possessed me at sight of her.  Let Ramiro be ruthless and cruel where men were concerned; that was a thing for which forgiveness might be found him.  But that he should submit a lady, delicately nurtured as was Madonna, to such horrors as she had undergone since she had awakened from his sleeping-potion in the Church of San Domenico, was something for which no Hell could punish him condignly.

Ramiro met me with a countenance through the assumed gravity of which I could espy his wicked, infernal mockery peeping forth.