----"

"They shall not, while I am here," he answered, with a cheering
confidence. And she, full of faith in this true knight of hers, went to
seek her ladies, and to soothe in her turn any alarm to which they might
have fallen a prey.

Francesco went to disarm, and Gonzaga to take the air upon the ramparts,
his heart a very bag of gall. His hatred for the interloper was as
nothing now to his rage against Valentina, a rage that had its birth
in a wondering uncomprehension of how she should prefer that coarse,
swashbuckling bully to himself, the peerless Gonzaga. And as he walked
there, under the noontide sky, the memory of Francesco's assurance that
the men would not mutiny returned to him, and he caught himself most
ardently desiring that they might, if only to bear it home to Valentina
how misplaced was her trust, how foolish her belief in that loud
boaster. He thought next--and with increasing bitterness--of his own
brave schemes, of his love for Valentina, and of how assured he had
been that his affections were returned, before this ruffler came
amongst them. He laughed in bitter scorn as the thought returned to her
preferring Francesco to himself. Well, it might be so now--now that the
times were warlike, and this Francesco was such a man as shone at his
best in them. But what manner of companion would this sbirro make in
times of peace? Had he the wit, the grace, the beauty even that was
Gonzaga's? Circumstance, it seemed to him, was here to blame, and he
roundly cursed that same Circumstance. In other surroundings, he was
assured that she would not have cast an eye upon Francesco whilst he,
himself, was by; and if he recalled their first meeting at Acquasparta,
it was again to curse Circumstance for having placed the knight in such
case as to appeal to the tenderness that is a part of woman's nature.

He reflected--assured that he was right--that if Francesco had not come
to Roccaleone, he might by now have been wed to Valentina; and once wed,
he could throw down the bridge and march out of Roccaleone, assured that
Gian Maria would not care to espouse his widow, and no less assured that
Guidobaldo--who was at heart a kind and clement prince--would be content
to let be what was accomplished, since there would be naught gained
beyond his niece's widowhood in hanging Gonzaga. It was the specious
argument that had lured him upon this rash enterprise, the hopes that
he was confident would have fructified but for the