I shook my head, my glance meeting his without fear.  I was of twice his strength, we were alone, and the hour was one that levelled ranks.  Had he made the least attempt to carry out his threat, had he but drawn an inch of the steel he fingered, I think I should have slain him with my hands without fear or thought of consequences.

“I have no help for you such as you need,” I answered him.  “I am but the Fool of Pesaro.  Whoever looked to a Fool for miracles?”

“But here is death,” he almost moaned.

“Lord of Pesaro,” I reminded him, “your mercenaries are under arms by your command, and your knights are joining them.  They wait for the fulfilment of your promise to lead them out against the enemy.  Shall you fail them in such an hour as this?”

He sank, limp as an empty scabbard, to a chair.

“I dare not go.  It is death,” he answered miserably.

“And what but death is it to remain here?” I asked, torturing him with more zest than ever he had experienced over the agonies of some poor victim on the rack.  “In bearing yourself gallantly there lies a slender chance for you.  Your people seeing you in arms and ready to defend them may yet be moved to a return of loyalty.”

“A fig for their loyalty,” was his peevish, craven answer.  “What shall it avail me when I’m slain!”

God! was there ever such a coward as this, such a weak-souled, water-hearted dastard?

“But you may not be slain,” I urged him.  And then I sounded a fresh note.  “Bethink you of Madonna Paola and of the brave things you promised her.”

He flushed a little, then paled again, then sat very still.  Shame had touched him at last, yet its grip was not enough to make a man of him.  A moment he remained irresolute, whilst that shame fought a hard battle with his fears.

But those fears proved stronger in the end, and his shame was overthrown by them.

“I dare not,” he gasped, his slender, delicate hands clutching at the arms of his chair.  “Heaven knows I am not skilled in the use of arms.”

“It asks no skill,” I assured him.  “Put on your armour, take a sword and lay about you.  The most ignorant scullion in your kitchens could perform it given that he had the spirit.”

He moistened his lips with his tongue, and his eyes looked dead as a snake’s.  Suddenly he rose and took a step towards the armour that was piled about a great leathern chair.  Then he paused and turned to me once more.

“Help me to put it on,” he said in a voice that he strove to render steady.  Yet scarcely had I reached the pile and taken up the breast-plate, when he recoiled again from the task.  He broke into a torrent of blasphemy.

“I will not sacrifice myself,” he almost screamed.  “Jesus! not I. I will find a way out of this.  I will live to return with an army and regain my throne.”

“A most wise purpose.  But, meanwhile, your men are waiting for you; Madonna Paola di Santafior is waiting for you, and—­hark!—­the bellowing crowd is waiting for you.”