he snarled. "Who cares for them? The Lord of Pesaro
am I."

"Care you, then, nothing for them? Will you have your name written in
history as that of a coward who would not lift his sword to strike one
blow for honour's sake ere he was driven out like a beast by the mere
sound of voices?"

That touched him. His vanity rose in arms.

"Take up that corselet," he commanded hoarsely. I did his bidding, and,
without a word, he raised his arms that I might fit it to his breast.
Yet in the instant that I turned me to pick up the back-piece, a crash
resounded through the chamber. He had hurled the breastplate to the
ground in a fresh access of terror-rage. He strode towards me, his eyes
glittering like a madman's.

"Go you!" he cried, and with outstretched arms he pointed wildly across
the courtyard. "You are very ready with your counsels. Let me behold
your deeds, Do you put on the armour and go out to fight those animals."

He raved, he ranted, he scarce knew what he said or did, and yet the
words he uttered sank deep into my heart, and a sudden, wild ambition
swelled my bosom.

"Lord of Pesaro," I cried, in a voice so compelling that it sobered him,
"if I do this thing what shall be my reward?"

He stared at me stupidly for a moment. Then he laughed in a silly,
crackling fashion.

"Eh?" he queried. "Gesu!" And he passed a hand over his damp brow, and
threw back the hair that cumbered it. "What is the thing that you would
do, Fool?"

"Why, the thing you bade me," I answered firmly. "Put on your armour,
and shut down the visor so that all shall think it is the Lord Giovanni,
Tyrant of Pesaro, who rides. If I do this thing, and put to rout the
rabble and the fifty men that Cesare Borgia has sent, what shall be my
reward?"

He watched me with twitching lips, his glare fixed upon me and a faint
colour kindling in his face. He saw how easy the thing might be. Perhaps
he recalled that he had heard that I was skilled in arms--having spent
my youth in the exercise of them, against the time when I might fling
the challenge that had brought me to my Fool's estate. Maybe he recalled
how I had borne myself against long odds on that adventure with Madonna
Paola, years ago. Just such a vanity as had spurred him to have me write
him verses that he might pretend were of his own making, moved him now
to grasp at my proposal. They would all think that Giovanni's armour
contained Giovanni himself. None would ever suspect Boccadoro