“I have thought of it,” I answered gloomily, “but the thought has brought me no hope.  Ramiro is not to be trusted.  He might tell you that he sets me free, but he dare not do so; he fears that I may have knowledge of his dealings with Vitelli, and assuredly he would break faith with us.  Again the coming of the Duke might be delayed.  Alas!” I ended in despair, “there is nothing to be done but to let things run their course.”

There was even more in my mind than I expressed.  My mistrust of Ramiro went further than I had explained, and concerning Madonna more closely than it did me.

“Nay, Lazzaro mine,” she still protested, “I will attempt it.  It is, at least, well worth the risk.

“You forget,” said I, “that even when Cesare comes we cannot say how he will bear himself towards you.  You were to have been betrothed to his cousin, Ignacio.  It is a matter upon which he may insist.”

She looked at me for a moment with anguish in her eyes that turned my misery into torture.

“Lazzaro,” she moaned, “was ever woman so beset!  I think that Heaven must have laid some curse upon me.”

Her face was close to mine.  I stooped forward and kissed her on her brow.

“May God have you in His keeping, Madonna mia,” I murmured.  “The sun is gone.”

“Lazzaro!” It was the cry of a breaking heart.  Her arms went round my neck, and in a passion of grief her kisses burned on my lips.

Then the door of the anteroom opened—­and I thanked God for the mercy of that interruption.  I whispered a word to her, and in obedience she sprang back, and sank limp and broken on the chair once again.

Ramiro entered, his men behind him, his face alit with eagerness.  There and then I swamped his hopes.

“The sun is gone, Magnificent,” said I.  “You had best get me hanged.”

His brow darkened, for there was a note of mockery and triumph in my voice.

“You have fooled me, animal,” he cried.  His jaw set, and his eyes continued to regard me with an evil glow.  Then he laughed terribly, shrugged his shoulders, and spoke again.  “After all, it shall avail you little.”  He turned to the carnifex.  “Federigo, do your work,” said he, whereupon the fellow stepped behind me, and the halberdiers ranged themselves one on either side of me again.

“A word ere I go, Messer del’ Orca,” I demanded insolently.

He looked at me sharply, wondering, maybe, at the fresh tone I took.

“Say it and begone,” he sullenly permitted me.

I paused a moment to choose fitting words for that portentous death-song of mine.  At length—­

“You boasted to me a little while ago,” said I, smiling grimly, “that the man did not live who had thrice fooled you.  That man does live, for that man am I.”

“Bah!” he returned contemptuously, thinking, no doubt, that I referred to my interview with Madonna Paola.  “You may take what pride you will from such a thought.  You are upon the threshold of death.”