d me to render me unfaithful, it may be that you, yourself,
would pity me."

"Why, that I do," answered Francesco gently. "Indeed, could I have seen
the consequences that oath would have for you, I had not bound you by
it."

The fear in Peppe's face gave place to unbelief.

"And you forgive me, lord?" he cried. "I dreaded when you entered
that you were come to punish me for what wrong I may have done you in
speaking. But if you forgive me, it may be that Heaven will forgive me
also, and that I may not be damned. And that were a thousand pities, for
what, my lord, should I do in hell?"

"Deride the agonies of Gian Maria," answered Francesco, with a laugh.

"It were almost worth burning for," mused Peppe, putting forth a hand,
whose lacerated, swollen wrist bore evidence to the torture he had
suffered. At sight of it the Count made an exclamation of angry horror,
and hastened to inquire into the poor fool's condition.

"It is not so bad now," Peppe answered him, "and it is only in
consequence of Messer Valdicampo's insistence that I have kept my bed. I
can scarce use my arms, it is true, but they are improving. To-morrow
I shall be up, and I hope to set out for Urbino, where my dear mistress
must be distressed with fears for my absence, for she is a very kind and
tender-hearted lady."

This resolve of Peppe's prompted the Count to offer to conduct him
to Urbino on the morrow, since he, himself, would be journeying that
way--an offer which the fool accepted without hesitation and with lively
gratitude.

CHAPTER XII. THE FOOL'S INQUISITIVENESS

In the morning Francesco set out once more, accompanied by his servants,
Fanfulla, and the fool. The latter was now so far restored as to be able
to sit a mule, but lest the riding should over-tire him they proceeded
at little more than an ambling pace along the lovely valleys of the
Metauro. Thus it befell that when night descended it found them still
journeying, and some two leagues distant from Urbino. Another league
they travelled in the moonlight, and the fool was beguiling the time
for them with a droll story culled from the bright pages of Messer
Boccaccio, when of a sudden his sharp ears caught a sound that struck
him dumb in the middle of a sentence.

"Are you faint?" asked Francesco, turning quickly towards him, and
mindful of the fellow's sore condition.

"No, no," answered the fool, with a readiness that dispelled the Count's
alarm on that score. "I