ival of Florence, of Venice or Milan. He had a vision of
widened territories, and of neighbouring lords becoming vassals to his
might. He saw himself wresting Romagna mile by mile from the sway of the
ribald Borgia, hunting him to the death as he was wont to hunt the boar
in the marshes of Commachio, or driving him into the very Vatican to
seek shelter within his father's gates--the last strip of soil that he
would leave him to lord it over. He dreamt of a Babbiano courted by the
great republics, and the honour of its alliance craved by them that they
might withstand the onslaughts of French and Spaniard. All this he saw
in that fleeting vision of his, and Temptation caught his martial spirit
in a grip of steel. And then another picture rose before his eyes. What
would he do in times of peace? His was a soul that pined in palaces. He
was born to the camp, and not to the vapid air of courts. In exchange
for this power that was offered him what must he give? His glorious
liberty. Become their lord in many things, to be their slave in more.
Nominally to rule, but actually to be ruled, until, should he fail to
do his rulers' will, there would be some night another meeting such as
this, in which men would plot to encompass his downfall and to supplant
him as he was invited to supplant Gian Maria. Lastly, he bethought
him of the man whose power he was bidden to usurp. His own cousin, his
father's sister's son, in whose veins ran the same blood as in his own.

He raised his head at last, and met those anxious faces on which the
fitful light was casting harsh shadows. The pale ghost of a smile
hovered for a second on the corners of his stern mouth.

"I thank you, sirs, for the honour you have done me," he made answer
slowly, "an honour of which I fear I am all unworthy."

In strenuous chorus their voices rose to contradict him.

"At least, then, an honour which I cannot accept."

There was a moment's silence, and their faces from eager that they had
been, grew downcast to the point of sullenness.

"But why, my lord?" cried old Fabrizio at last, his arms outstretched
towards the Count, his voice quivering with intensity. "Santissima
Vergine! Why?"

"Because--to give you but one reason out of many--the man you ask me to
overthrow and supplant is of my own blood." And but that his tone was
calm they might have held that he rebuked them.

"I had thought," hazarded seriously the gay Fanfulla, "that with such a
man as your Ex