“I deplore your end, Lazzaro Biancomonte,” said he slowly, “for you are a brave man, and brave men are rare.  You were worthy of better things, but you chose to cross swords with Ramiro del’ Orca, and you have got your death-blow.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

“I am praying,” said I, “for just so much mercy as you shall have justice.  If my prayer is heard, I should be well-content.”

He changed countenance a little.  So, too, I thought, did Madonna Paola.  My firmness may have yielded her some grain of comfort.  Ramiro set his hands on his hips, and eyed me squarely.

“You are a dauntless rogue,” he confessed.

I laughed for answer, and in that moment it entered my mind that I might yet enjoy some measure of revenge in this life.  More than that, I might benefit Madonna.  For were the seed I was about to sow to take root in the craven heart of Ramiro del’ Orca, it would so fully occupy his mind that he would have little time to bestow on Paola in the few hours that were left him.  But before I could bethink me of words, he was speaking again.

“I held out to you a slender hope,” said he.  “I told you that there was one little thing might save you.  That hope has borne no fruit; the little thing, I spoke of has not come to pass.  It rested with Madonna Paola, here.  She had it in her hands to effect your salvation, but she has refused.  Your blood rests on her head.”

She shuddered at the words, and a low moan escaped her.  She covered her face with her hands.  A moment I stood looking at her; then I shifted my glance to Ramiro.

“Will it please you, Illustrious, to allow me a few moments’ conversation with Madonna Paola di Santafior?”

I invested my tones with a weight of meaning that did not escape him.  His face suddenly lightened; whilst one of his officers—­a fellow very fitly named Lupone—­laughed outright.

“Your hero seems none so heroic after all,” he said derisively to the Governor.  “The imminence of death makes him amenable.”

Ramiro scowled on him for answer.  Then, turning to me—­“Do you think you could bend her stubbornness?” quoth he.

“I might attempt it,” answered I.

His eyes flashed with evil hope; his lips parted in a smile.  He shot a glance at Madonna, who had withdrawn her hands from her face and was regarding me now with a strange expression of horror and incredulity—­ marvelling, no doubt, to find me such a craven as I must have seemed.

Ramiro looked at the diminishing sunlight on the floor.

“In some five minutes the sun will have completely set,” said he.  “Those five minutes you shall have to seek to enlist Madonna’s aid on your behalf.  If you succeed—­and she may tell you on what terms you are to have your life—­you shall depart from Cesena to-night a free man.”

He paused a moment, and his eyes, lighted by an odious smile, rested once more on Madonna Paula.  Then he bade all withdraw, and went with them into an adjoining chamber, fondly nurturing the hopes that were begotten of his belief that Lazzaro Biancomonte was a villain.