Filippo turned to his sister, on whose pale face I saw it written that she was as convinced as any there, and my feelings were those of a dastard who has broken faith with the man who trusted him.

“Do you appreciate now, Madonna,” he murmured, “the deceits and wiles by which that craven crept like a snake into your esteem?”

I guessed at once that by that thrust he sought to incline her more to the union he had in view for her.

“At least he was no craven,” answered she.  “His burning desire to please me may have betrayed him into this foolish duplicity.  But he still must live in my memory as a brave and gallant gentleman; or have you forgotten, Filippo, that noble combat with the forces of Ramiro del’ Orca?”

To such a question Filippo had no answer, and presently his mood sobered a little.  For myself, I was glad when the time came to withdraw from that company that twitted and pestered me and played upon my sense of shame at the imprudence I had committed.

Now that I look back, I can scarce conceive why it should have so wrought upon me; for, in truth, the little love I bore the Lord Giovanni might rather have led me to rejoice that his imposture should be laid bare to the eyes of all the world.  I think that really there was an element of fear in my feelings—­fear that, upon reflection, Madonna Paola might ask herself how came that burning sincerity into the love-songs written in her honour which it was now disclosed that I had penned.  The answer she might find to such a question was one that might arouse her pride and so outrage it as to lead her to cast me out of her friendship and never again suffer me to approach her.

Such a conclusion, however, she fortunately did not arrive at.  Haply she accounted the fervour of those lines assumed, for when on the morrow she met me, she did no more than gently chide me for the deceit that I had had a hand in practising upon her.  She accepted my explanation that my share in that affair had been wrung from me with threats of torture, and putting it from her mind she returned to the matter of the approaching alliance she sought to elude, renewing her prayers that I should aid her.

“I have,” she told me then, “one other friend who might assist us, and who has the power perhaps if he but has the will.  He is the Governor of Cesena, and for all that he holds service under Cesare Borgia, yet he seems much devoted to me, and I do not doubt that to further my interests he would even consent to pit his wits against those of the family he serves.”

“In which case, Madonna,” answered I, spurred to it, perhaps, by an insensate pang of jealousy at the thought that there should be another beside myself to have her confidence, “he would be a traitor.  And it is ever an ill thing to trust a traitor.  Who once betrays may betray again.”

That she manifested no resentment, but, on the contrary, readily agreed with me, showed me how idle had been that jealousy of mine, and made me ashamed of it.