guelphic cousin of my father's, Cosimo d'Anguissola,
who, after me, was heir to Mondolfo, and had, therefore, good reason not
to see it confiscated to the Holy See.

Thus it fell out that we were left in peace and not made to suffer from
my father's rebellion. For that, he himself should suffer when taken.
But taken he never was. From time to time we had news of him. Now he was
in Venice, now in Milan, now in Naples; but never long in any place for
his safety's sake. And then one night, six years later, a scarred and
grizzled veteran, coming none knew whence, dropped from exhaustion in
the courtyard of our citadel, whither he had struggled. Some went to
minister to him, and amongst these there was a groom who recognized him.

"It is Messer Falcone!" he cried, and ran to bear the news to my mother,
with whom I was at table at the time. With us, too, was Fra Gervasio,
our chaplain.

It was grim news that old Falcone brought us. He had never quitted my
father in those six weary years of wandering until now that my father
was beyond the need of his or any other's service.

There had been a rising and a bloody battle at Perugia, Falcone informed
us. An attempt had been made to overthrow the rule there of Pier Luigi
Farnese, Duke of Castro, the pope's own abominable son. For some months
my father had been enjoying the shelter of the Perugians, and he had
repaid their hospitality by joining them and bearing arms with them in
the ill-starred blow they struck for liberty. They had been crushed in
the encounter by the troops of Pier Luigi, and my father had been among
the slain.

And well was it for him that he came by so fine and merciful an end,
thought I, when I had heard the tale of horrors that had been undergone
by the unfortunates who had fallen into the hands of Farnese.

My mother heard him to the end without any sign of emotion. She
sat there, cold and impassive as a thing of marble, what time Fra
Gervasio--who was my father's foster-brother, as you shall presently
learn more fully--sank his head upon his arm and wept like a child to
hear the piteous tale of it. And whether from force of example, whether
from the memories that came to me so poignantly in that moment of a fine
strong man with a brown, shaven face and a jovial, mighty voice, who had
promised me that one day we should ride together, I fell a-weeping too.

When the tale was done, my mother coldly gave orders that Falcone be
cared for, and went to pra