, on whose brow there now descended a
scowl as black as Ercole's own.

"Aye, punished, young sir. Ercole Fortemani is my name."

"I have heard of you," answered the Count contemptuously, "and of how
you belie that name of yours, for they tell me that a more drunken,
cowardly, good-for-nothing rogue is not to be found in Italy--no, not
even in the Pope's dominions. And have a care how you cast the word
'punishment' at your betters, animal. The moat is none so distant, and
the immersion may profit you. For I'll swear you've not been washed
since they baptized you--if, indeed, you be a son of Mother Church at
all."

"Sangue di Cristo!" spluttered the enraged bully, his face mottled.
"This to me? Come down from that horse."

He laid hold of Francesco's leg to drag him to the ground, but the Count
wrenched it free by a quick motion that left a gash from his spur upon
the captain's hands. Simultaneously he raised his whip, and would have
laid the lash of it across the broad of Fortemani's back--for it had
angered him beyond words to have a ruffian of this fellow's quality
seeking to ruffle it with him--but at that moment a female voice, stern
and imperative, bade them hold in their quarrel.

Fortemani fell back nursing his lacerated hand and muttering curses,
whilst Francesco turned in the direction whence that voice had come.
Midway on the flight of stone steps he beheld Valentina, followed
by Gonzaga, Peppe, and a couple of men-at-arms, descending from the
battlements.

Calm and queenly she stood, dressed in a camorra of grey velvet with
black sleeves, which excellently set off her handsome height. Gonzaga
was leaning forward, speaking into her ear, and for all that his voice
was subdued, some of his words travelled down to Francesco on the still,
morning air.

"Was I not wise, Madonna, in that I hesitated to admit him? You see what
manner of man he is."

The blood flamed in Francesco's cheeks, nor did it soften his chagrin to
note the look which Valentina flashed down at him.

Instantly he leapt to the ground, and flinging his reins to Lanciotto
he went forward to the foot of that stone staircase, his broad hat slung
back upon his shoulders, to meet that descending company.

"Is this seemly, sir?" she questioned angrily. "Does it become you to
brawl with my garrison the moment you are admitted?"

The blood rose higher in Francesco's face, and now suffused his temples
and reached his hair. Yet his voice was we