aned.

"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."

"They wait in vain,"