with my poor father. And I had, too, the habit of obedience
which is not so lightly broken as I had at first accounted possible.

Sullenly then I set down my sword upon a bench that stood against the
wall, and my target with it. As I turned aside to do so, her gloomy eyes
were poised for an instant upon Falcone, who stood grim and silent. Then
they were lowered again ere she began to address him.

"You have done very ill, Falcone," said she. "You have abused my trust
in you, and you have sought to pervert my son and to lead him into ways
of evil."

He started under that reproof like a fiery stallion under the spur. His
face flushed scarlet. The habit of obedience may have been strong in
Falcone too; but it was obedience to men; with women he had never had
much to do, old warrior though he was. Moreover, in this he felt that an
affront had been put upon the memory of Giovanni d'Anguissola, who was
my father and who went nigh to being Falcone's god. And this his answer
plainly showed.

"The ways into which I lead your son, Madonna," said he in a low voice
that boomed up and echoed in the groined ceiling overhead, "are the
ways that were trod by my lord his father. And who says that the ways
of Giovanni d'Anguissola were evil ways lies foully, be he man or
woman, patrician or villein, pope or devil." And upon that he paused
magnificently, his eyes aflash.

She shuddered under his rough speech. Then answered without looking up,
and with no trace of anger in her voice:

"You are restored to health and strength by now, Messer Falcone. The
seneschal shall have orders to pay you ten gold ducats in discharge of
all that may be still your due from us. See that by night you have left
Mondolfo."

And then, without changing her deadly inflection, or even making a
noticeable pause, "Come, Agostino," she commanded.

But I did not move. Her words had fixed me there with horror. I heard
from Falcone a sound that was between a growl and a sob. I dared not
look at him, but the eye of my fancy saw him standing rigid, pale, and
self-contained.

What would he do, what would he say? Oh, she had done a cruel, a
bitterly cruel wrong. This poor old warrior, all scarred and patched
from wounds that he had taken in my father's service, to be turned
away in his old age, as we should not have turned away a dog! It was a
monstrous thing. Mondolfo was his home. The Anguissola were his family,
and their honour was his honour, since as a vill