It was during this period of my existence that the poetic gifts I had discovered myself possessed of whilst at Pesaro, burst into full bloom; and not a little relief did I find in the penning of those love-songs—­the true expression of what was in my heart—­which have since been given to the world under the title of Le Rime di Boccadoro.  And what time I tended my mother’s land by day, and wrote by night of the feverish, despairing love that was consuming me, I waited for the call that, sooner or later, I knew must come.  What prophetic instinct it was had rooted that certainty in my heart I do not pretend to say.  Perhaps my hope was of such a strength that it assumed the form of certainty to solace the period of my hermitage.  But that some day Madonna Paola’s messenger would arrive bringing me the Borgia ring, I was as confident as that some day I must die.

Two years went by, and we were in the Autumn of 1502, yet my faith knew no abating, my confidence was strong as ever.  And, at last, that confidence was justified.  One night of early October, as I sat at supper with my mother after the labours of the day, a sound of hoofs disturbed the peace of the silent night.  It drew rapidly nearer, and long before the knock fell upon our door, I knew that it was the messenger from my lady.

My mother looked at me across the board, an expression of alarm overspreading her old face.  “Who,” her eyes seemed to ask me, “was this horseman that rode so late?”

My hound rose from the hearth with a growl, and stood bristling, his eyes upon the door.  White-haired old Silvio, the last remaining retainer of the House of Biancomonte, came forth from the kitchen, with inquiry and fear blending on his wrinkled, weather-beaten countenance.

And I, seeing all these signs of alarm, yet knowing what awaited me on the threshold, rose with a laugh, and in a bound had crossed the intervening space.  I flung wide the door, and from the gloom without a man’s voice greeted me with a question.

“Is this the house of Messer Lazzaro Biancomonte?”

“I am that Lazzaro Biancomonte,” answered I.  “What may your pleasure be?”

The stranger advanced until he came within the light.  He was plainly dressed, and wore a jerkin of leather and long boots.  From his air I judged him a servant or a courier.  He doffed his hat respectfully, and held out his right hand in which something was gleaming yellow.  It was the Borgia ring.

“Pesaro,” was all he said.

I took the ring and thanked him, then bade him enter and refresh himself ere he returned, and I called old Silvio to bring wine.

“I am not returning,” the man informed me.  “I am a courier riding to Parma, whom Madonna charged with that message to you in passing.”

Nevertheless he consented to rest him awhile and sip the wine we set before him, and what time he did so I engaged him in talk, and led him to tell me what he knew of the trend of things at Pesaro, and what news there was of the Lord Giovanni.  He had little enough to tell.  Pesaro was flourishing and prospering under the Borgia dominion.  Of the Lord Giovanni there was little news, saving that he was living under the protection of the Gonzagas in Mantua, and that so long as he was content to abide there the Borgias seemed disposed to give him peace.