ness. But Amilcare had no clear thought
of that. For the moment Nona was as peaceful as Forli, or Rimini, or
Pesaro, or Faenza, thanks to him and his "Centaurs"--that famous band of
free riders he had levied from the Tuscan hills. Very much at his mercy,
safe under the eye of his trusted Secretary, awaiting his return, he
fully intended that peace to continue when she fell huddling to him. It
would, indeed, be his care; for it was a maxim of Italian politics that
no man willingly stirs after dinner.

The situation was still pretty delicate; he had done little more than
win foothold. In the late struggles with Parma he had intrigued with
great address; sold himself and his Centaurs to Farnese, brought that
thick-necked hero up to the very walls of Nona, then (in the nick of
time) resold himself at double the price to the city he was besieging,
and routed his yesterday's master by an attack in flank just as the
Nonesi were carrying the trenches in front. In the excitement of that
wonderful hour--Farnese in full flight, himself borne on men's shoulders
round the Piazza, thanksgiving in the cathedral, clouds of incense,
clashing bells, wine running in the Fontana delle Grazie--he had for a
moment been tempted to believe the times ripe for a proclamation:
"Amilcar, Dei Gratia, Nonarum Dux," etc. He had his treble wages in his
pocket, the hearts of the whole city throbbing at his feet. He was a
young man: tempted he certainly was. But Grifone (the Secretary) touched
his elbow and showed a straightened lip. He would not risk it. He
contented himself with a footing, the Palazzo Bagnacavallo rent-free,
and the title of "Gonfalonerius Populorum Libertatis," which looked
passably well about a broad seal. "Pater Patriae," "Nonarum Dux," the
control of the bread-tax,--all should be added to him in time, if only
the Borgia could be fed elsewhere. At the thought of that hearty eater
stalled in the Vatican, he felt that he might indeed thank God for his
lovely Molly. With her for decoy even that game-bird might be lured.
Lying on the poop of the _Santa Fina_, his dark eyes questing over her
face, her hands among his curls, he seemed to Molly the wonder of the
world. So of her world he was; but he meant to be that of his own--a
very different world.

He was a lithe, various creature, this Amilcare Passavente, his own
paradox. Quick as a bird of prey he was, and at times as inert; dark as
night, eagle-faced, flat-browed, stiff and small