king on his master's behalf for Lodovico's release, but the only
concession that he could obtain was some relaxation in the rigour of his
treatment. The duke was removed to the chateau of Loches in Touraine, a
healthy and beautiful spot, on the summit of a lofty hill, and was
allowed greater liberty and more society.

All contemporary writers agree that he bore his long and tedious
captivity with remarkable patience and fortitude. "I have heard," writes
the Como historian, Paolo Giovio, "from Pier Francesco da Pontremoli,
who was the duke's faithful companion and servant during his captivity,
that he bore his miserable condition with pious resignation and
sweetness, often saying that God had sent him these tribulations as a
punishment for the sins of his youth, since nothing but the sudden might
of destiny could have subverted the counsels of human wisdom."

Early in the spring of 1508, the Moro seems to have made a desperate
attempt to escape. According to the Milanese chronicler Prato, he bribed
one of his guardians, with gold supplied, as we learn, from Padre
Gattico, by the friars of S. Maria delle Grazie, and succeeded in making
his way out of the castle gates hidden in a waggon load of straw. But he
lost his way in the woods that surround Loches, and after wandering all
night in search of the road to Germany, he was discovered on the
following day by blood-hounds, who were put upon his track. After this,
his captivity became more severe. He was deprived of books and writing
materials and cut off from intercourse with the outer world. It was
then, too, in all likelihood, that he was confined in the subterranean
dungeon, still shown as the Moro's prison. The cell, as visitors to
Loches remember, is cut out of the solid rock, and light and air can
only penetrate by one narrow loophole. There, tradition says, Leonardo's
patron, the great duke who had once reigned over Milan, beguiled the
weary hours of his captivity by painting red and blue devices and
mottoes on his prison walls. Among these rude attempts at decoration we
may still discover traces of a portrait of himself in casque and armour,
and a sun-dial roughly scratched on the stone opposite the slit in the
rock. And there, too, half effaced by the damp, are fragments of
inscriptions, which tell the same piteous tale of regret for vanished
days and weary longings for the end that would not come.

"Quand Mort me assault et que je ne puis mourir
Et se c