them.

Gian Maria moved across the room to a tapestried prie-dieu, and knelt
down before an ivory crucifix to render thanks to God for the signal
light of grace, by which He had vouchsafed to show the Duke his enemy.

Thereafter, drawing from the breast of his doublet a chaplet of gold and
amber beads, he piously discharged his nightly devotions.

CHAPTER X. THE BRAYING OF AN ASS

When on the morrow, towards the twenty-second hour, the High and Mighty
Gian Maria Sforza rode into his capital at Babbiano, he found the city
in violent turmoil, occasioned, as he rightly guessed, by the ominous
presence of Caesar Borgia's envoy.

A dense and sullen crowd met him at the Porta Romana, and preserved a
profound silence as he rode into the city, accompanied by Alvari and
Santi, and surrounded by his escort of twenty spears in full armour.
There was a threat in that silence more ominous than any vociferations,
and very white was the Duke's face as he darted scowls of impotent anger
this way and that. But there was worse to come. As they rode up the
Borgo dell' Annunziata the crowd thickened, and the silence was now
replaced by a storm of hooting and angry cries. The people became
menacing, and by Armstadt's orders--the Duke was by now too paralysed
with fear to issue any--the men-at-arms lowered their pikes in order to
open a way, whilst one or two of the populace, who were thrust too near
the cavalcade by the surging human tide, went down and were trampled
under foot.

Satirical voices asked the Duke derisively was he wed, and where might
be his uncle-in-law's spears that were to protect them against the
Borgia. Some demanded to know whither the last outrageous levy of taxes
was gone, and where was the army it should have served to raise. To
this, others replied for the Duke, suggesting a score of vile uses to
which the money had been put.

Then, of a sudden, a cry of "Murderer!" arose, followed by angry demands
that he should restore life to the valiant Ferrabraccio, to Amerini, the
people's friend, and to those others whom he had lately butchered, or
else follow them in death. Lastly the name of the Count of Aquila rang
wildly in his ears, provoking a storm of "Evviva! Live Francesco del
Falco!" and one persistent voice, sounding loudly above the others,
styled him already "il Duca Francesco." At that the blood mounted to
Gian Maria's brain, and a wave of anger beat back the fear from his
heart. He rose in his s