ly without fear, and presently I was to see how little cause
there was for any, and to realize that the action of my guards was
sprung from a very different motive.

The people stood silent, and on every upturned face of which I caught a
glimpse I saw something that was akin to pity. Presently, however, as we
drew nearer to the Palace, a murmur began to rise. It swelled and grew
fierce. Suddenly a cry rose vehement and clear.

"Rescue! Rescue!"

"He is the Lord of Mondolfo," shouted one tall fellow, "and the
Cardinal-legate makes a cat's-paw of him! He is to suffer for Messer
Gambara's villainy!"

Again he was answered by the cry--"Rescue! Rescue!" whilst some added an
angry--"Death to the Legate!"

Whilst I was deeply marvelling at all this, Cosimo looked at me over
his shoulder, and though his lips were steady, his eyes seemed to smile,
charged with a message of derision--and something more, something that I
could not read. Then I heard his hard, metallic voice.

"Back there, you curs! To your kennels! Out of the way, or we ride you
down."

He had drawn his sword, and his white hawk-face was so cruel and
determined that they fell away before him and their cries died down.

We passed into the courtyard of the Communal Palace, and the great
studded gates were slammed in the faces of the mob, and barred.

I got down from my mule, and was conducted at Cosimo's bidding to one
of the dungeons under the Palace, where I was left with the announcement
that I must present myself to-morrow before the Tribunal of the Ruota.

I flung myself down upon the dried rushes that had been heaped in
a corner to do duty for a bed, and I abandoned myself to my bitter
thoughts. In particular I pondered the meaning of the crowd's strange
attitude. Nor was it a riddle difficult to resolve. It was evident that
believing Gambara, as they did, to be Giuliana's lover, and informed
perhaps--invention swelling rumour as it will--that the Cardinal-legate
had ridden late last night to Fifanti's house, it had been put about
that the foul murder done there was Messer Gambara's work.

Thus was the Legate reaping the harvest of all the hatred he had sown,
of all the tyranny and extortion of his iron rule in Piacenza. And
willing to believe any evil of the man they hated, they not only laid
Fifanti's death at his door, but they went to further lengths and
accounted that I was the cat's-paw; that I was to be sacrificed to save
the Legate's face