And then, before he could say more, two ladies issued from the doorway on my right.  They were Madonna Lucrezia and Madonna Paola.  Upon espying me they hastened forward with expressions of pleased surprise at seeing me risen and out, and when I would have got to my feet they stayed me as Giovanni had done.  Madonna Paola’s words seemed addressed to heaven rather than to me, for they were words of thanksgiving for this recovery of my strength.

“I have no thanks,” she ended warmly, “that can match the deeds by which you earned them, Messer Biancomonte.”

My eyes drifting to Giovanni’s face surprised its sudden darkening.

“Madonna Paola,” said he, in an icy voice, “you have uttered a name that must not be heard within my walls of Pesaro, if you would prove yourself the friend of Boccadoro.  To remind me of his true identity is to remind me of that which counts not in his favour.”

She turned to regard him, a mild surprise in her blue eyes.

“But, my lord, you promised—­” she began.

“I promised,” he interposed, with an easy smile and manner never so deprecatory, “that I would pardon him, grant him his life and restore him to my favour.”

“But did you not say that if he survived and was restored to strength you would then determine the course his life should take?”

Still smiling, he produced his comfit-box, and raised the lid.

“That is a thing he seems to have determined for himself,” he answered smoothly—­he could be smooth as a cat upon occasion, could this bastard of Costanzo Sforza.  “I came upon him here, arrayed as you behold him, and reading a book of Spanish quips.  Is it not clear that he has chosen?”

Between thumb and forefinger he balanced a sugar-crusted comfit of coriander seed steeped in marjoram vinegar, and having put his question he bore the sweet-meat to his mouth.  The ladies looked at him, and from him to me.  Then Madonna Paola spoke, and there seemed a reproachful wonder in her voice.

“Is this indeed your choice?” she asked me.

“It is the choice that was forced on me,” said I, in heat.  “They left me no garment save these of folly.  That I was reading this book it pleases my lord to interpret into a further sign of my intentions.”

She turned to him again, and to the appeal she made was joined that of Madonna Lucrezia.  He grew serious and put up his hand in a gesture of rare loftiness.

“I am more clement than you think,” said he, “in having done so much.  For the rest, the restoration that you ask for him is one involving political issues you little dream of.  What is this?”

He had turned abruptly.  A servant was approaching, leading a mud-splashed courier, whom he announced as having just arrived.

“Whence are you?” Giovanni questioned him.

“From the Holy See,” answered the courier, bowing, “with letters for the High and Mighty Lord Giovanni Sforza, Tyrant of Pesaro, and his noble spouse, Madonna Lucrezia Borgia.”