“That is my answer to Madonna Lucrezia’s letter,” he said slowly, his voice as smooth as silk, “and I desire that you shall carry it to Pesaro for me, and deliver it safely and secretly into her hands.”

I could do no more than stare at him.  It seemed as if my mind were stricken numb.

“Well?” he asked at last; and in his voice there was now a suggestion of steel beneath the silk.  “Do you hesitate?”

“And if I do,” I answered, suddenly finding my voice, “I do no more than might a bolder man.  How can I, who am banned by punishment of death, contrive to penetrate again into the Court of Pesaro and reach the Lady Lucrezia?”

“That is a matter that I shall leave to the shrewd wit which all Italy says is the heritage of Boccadoro, the Prince of Fools.  Does the task daunt you?” His glance and voice were alike harsh.

In very truth it did, and I told him so, but in the terms which the shrewd wit he said was mine dictated.

“I hesitate, my lord, indeed; but more because I fear the frustration of your own ends—­whatever they may be—­than because I dread to earn a broken neck by again adventuring into Pesaro.  Would not some other messenger—­unknown at the Court of Giovanni Sforza—­be in better case to acquit himself of such a task?

“Yes, if I had one I could trust,” he answered frankly.

“I will be open with you, Biancomonte.  There are such grave matters at issue, there are such secrets confided to that paper, that I would not for a kingdom, not for our Holy Father’s triple crown, that they should fall into alien hands.”

He approached me again, and his slender hand, upon which the sacred amethyst was glowing, fell lightly on my shoulder.  He lowered his voice “You are the man, the one man in Italy, whose interests are bound up with mine in this; therefore are you the one man to whom I can entrust that package.”

“I?” I gasped in amazement—­as well I might, for what interests had Boccadoro, the Fool, in common with Cesare Borgia, Cardinal of Valencia?

“You,” he answered vehemently, “you, Lazzaro Biancomonte of Biancomonte, whose father Costanzo of Pesaro stripped of his domains.  The matters in those papers mean the ruin of the Lord of Pesaro.  We are all but ripe to strike at him from Rome and when we strike he shall be so disfigured by the blow that all Italy shall hold its sides to laugh at the sorry figure he will cut.  I would not say so much to any other living man but you and if I tell it you it is because I need your aid.”

“The lion and mouse,” I murmured.

“Why yes, if you will.”

“And this man is the husband of your sister!” I exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

“Does that imply a doubt of what I have said?” he flashed, his head thrown back, his brows drawn suddenly together.

“No, no,” I hastened to assure him.  He smiled softly.

“Maddonna Lucrezia knows all—­or nearly all.  Of what else she may need to learn, that letter will inform her.  It is the last thread, the last knot needed, before we can complete the net in which we are to hold that tyrant?  Now, will you bear the letter?”