It was an argument that had weight with them, as indeed, it must have had with the dullest.  I flashed my ring before their eyes.

“This escutcheon,” said I, “is the shield that shall stand between us and danger from any of the house that bears these arms.”

Thus I convinced and wrought upon them until they were ready to obey me—­ the more ready since any alternative was really to be preferred to their present situation.  In danger they already stood from those that followed as they well knew; and now it seemed to them that by obeying one who was armed with such credentials, it might be theirs to escape that danger.  But even as I was convincing them, by the same arguments was I sowing doubts in the lady’s subtler mind.

“You are attached to that house?” quoth she, in accents of mistrust.  She wanted to say more.  I saw it in her eyes that she was wondering was there treachery underlying an action so singularly disinterested as to justify suspicion.

“Madonna,” said I, “if you would save yourself I implore that you will trust me.  Very soon your pursuers will be appearing on those heights, and then your chance of flight will be lost to you.  I will ask you but this:  Did I propose to betray you into their hands, could I have done better than to have left you with your grooms?”

Her face lighted.  A sunny smile broke on me from her heavenly eyes.

“I should have thought of that,” said she.  And what more she would have added I put off by urging her to mount.

Sitting the man’s saddle as best she might—­well enough, indeed, to fill us all with surprise and admiration—­she took her leave of me with pretty words of thanks, which again I interrupted.

“You have but to follow the road,” said I, “and it will bring you straight to Cagli.  The distance is a short league, and you should come there safely.  Farewell, Madonna!”

“May I not know,” she asked at parting, “the name of him that has so generously befriended me?”

I hesitated a second.  Then—­“They call me Boccadoro,” answered I.

“If your mouth be as truly golden as your heart, then are you well-named,” said she.  Then, gathering her mantle about her, and waving me farewell, she rode off without so much as a glance at the cowardly hinds who had failed her in the hour of her need.

A moment I stood watching her as she cantered away in the sunshine; then stepping to the litter, I vaulted in.

“Now, rogues,” said I to the escort, “strike me that road to Fabriano.”

“I know you not, sir,” protested Giacopo.  “But this I know—­that if you intend us treachery you shall have my knife in your gullet for your pains.”

“Fool!” I scorned him, “since when has it been worth the while of any man to betray such creatures as are you?  Plague me no more!  Be moving, else I leave you to your coward’s fate.”

It was the tone best understood by hinds of their lily-livered quality.  It quelled their faint spark of mutiny, and a moment later one of those knaves had caught the bridle of the leading mule and the litter moved forward, whilst Giacopo and the others came on behind at as brisk a pace as their weary horses would yield.  In this guise we took the road south, in the direction opposite to that travelled by the lady.  As we rode, I summoned Giacopo to my side.