He stared at her for a moment.

“Then you love this fellow?” he gasped.  “You, Madonna Paola Sforza di Santafior, one of the noblest ladies in all Italy, confess to love this lordling of a few barren acres?”

“I loved him, Illustrious, when he was less, much less, than that.  I loved him when he was little better than the Fool of the Court of Pesaro, and not even the shame of the motley that disgraced him could stay the impulse of my affections.”

He laughed curiously.

“By my faith,” said he, “I have gone through life complaining of the want of frankness in the men and women I have met.  But you two seem to deal in it liberally enough to satisfy the most ardent seeker after truth.  I would that Pontius Pilate could have known you.”  Then he grew sterner.  “But what account of this evening’s adventure am I to bear to my cousin Ignacio?”

She hung her head in silence, whilst my own spirit trembled.  Then suddenly I spoke.

“My lord,” said I, “if you take her back to Pesaro, you may keep the deed of Biancomonte.  For unless Madonna Paola goes thither with me, your gift is a barren one, your reward of no account or value to me.”

“I would not have it so,” said he, his head on one side and his fingers toying with his auburn beard.  “You saved my life, and you must be rewarded fittingly.”

“Then, Illustrious, in payment for my preservation of your life, do you render happy mine, and we shall thus be quits.”

“My lord,” cried Paola, putting forth her hands in supplication, “if you have ever loved, befriend us now.”

A shadow darkened his face for an instant, then it was gone, and his expression was as inscrutable as ever.  Yet he took her hands in his and looked down into her eyes.

“They say that I am hard, bloodthirsty and unfeeling,” he said in tones that were almost of complaint.  “But I am not proof against so much appeal.  Ignacio must find him a bride in Spain; and if he is wise and would taste the sweets of life, he will see to it that he finds him a willing one.”

“As for you two, Cesare Borgia shalt stand your friend.  He owes you no less.  I will be godfather to your nuptials.  Thus shall the blame and consequences rest on me.  Paola Sforza di Santafior is dead, men think.  We will leave them thinking it.  Filippo must know the truth.  But you can trust me to make your brother take a reasonable view of what has come to pass.  After all, there may be a disparity in your ranks.  But it is purely adventitious, for noble though you may be, Madonna Paola, you are wedding one who seems no less noble at heart, whatever the parts he may have played in life.”  He smiled inscrutably, as he added:  “I have in mind that you once sought service with me Messer Biancomonte, and if a martial life allures you still, I’ll make you lord of something better far than Biancomonte.”

I thanked him, and Madonna joined me in that expression of gratitude—­an expression that fell very short of all that was in our hearts.  But touching that offer of his that I should follow his fortunes, I begged him not to insist.