"Charles."
Ramiro read the letter aloud, and then, without any comment on the contents, remarked:
"You have left the impress of your thumb in blood upon the king's missive, Signor Visconti; you are wounded, mayhap."
"Ah! a scratch--a mere scratch in my right shoulder," answered Lorenzo; "I could not completely parry one of his first thrusts, and he touched me, but it is nothing."
"Oh, you are hurt, Lorenzo! you are hurt!" cried Bianca Maria, who had come down from her chamber, and was standing behind the little circle which had gathered round the dead man.
"Get you to bed, child!" said the old count sharply; "these are no matters for you. Your cousin has but a scratch. Get you to bed, girl, I say; this is a pretty pass, that two men cannot fight without having all the women in the house for witnesses!"
In the mean time Ramiro d'Orco had raised the left hand of the dead man, in which was still firmly clasped his poniard--his sword had fallen out of the right when he fell--and, taking a torch from one of the servants, he gazed along the blade.
"This dagger is grooved for poison, Conte," he said, addressing his host in the same quiet, indifferent tone he generally used; "better look to the young gentleman's wound."
"I thank you, sir," replied Lorenzo; "but it came from his sword, not his poniard. I will retire and let my men stanch the bleeding."
"Better, at all events, apply some antidote," said Ramiro; "a little parsley boiled will extract most poisons, unless they remain too long. It were well to attend to it speedily."
"Well, I will go," replied Lorenzo; "but, I call Heaven to witness, I have no blame in this man's death. He attacked me unprovoked, and I killed him in self-defence."
"We must take measures to discover how this came about," said the count, thoughtfully. "Buondoni cannot have come here unattended."
"Better perchance let it rest," said Ramiro d'Orco, "there may be motives at the bottom of the whole affair that were not well brought to the surface. I have gathered little from tonight's discourse of this youth's history; but he is a Visconti, and that alone may make him powerful enemies, who had better still be his enemies than yours, father."
"I fear them not," replied the old nobleman; "let diligent inquiry be made around and on the road to Pavia for any stranger arrived this night. Now, Ramiro, come with me for awhile, and we will talk farther. Lights, boys, on there in my cabinet. You are in your night gear, signor; but I will not keep you long ere I let you to your slumbers again."
"They will be my first slumbers," answered Ramiro. "I had not closen an eye when I heard talking, and singing, and then clashing of swords--no unusual combinations in our fair land, Signor Rovera."
As he spoke he followed the old count into a small, beautiful room, every panel of which held a picture, of great price then, and invaluable now as specimens of the first revival of art. When they were seated and the doors closed, the elder man fell into a fit of thought, though he had invited the conference, and Ramiro d'Orco spoke first.
"Who is this young Visconti?" he asked; "and how comes the King of France to give him cousinship?"
"Why, he is the son of that Carlo Visconti who stabbed Galeazzo Sforza," answered the count, "and was killed in the church. The boy was carried by some of his relations to his godfather, Lorenzo de Medici, and educated by him."
"Then 'tis Ludovic's doing," said Ramiro; "he has sent this man to make away with him, though that was a bad return for his father's kind act in lifting him to power. By my faith he should have raised and honoured the boy. That good stroke of a dagger was worth three quarters of a dukedom to the good prince. But I suppose, from all I learn, that the youth is now trying adventure as a soldier."
"Soldier he is under the King of France," answered the old man; "but an adventurer he hardly can be called, for he has large estates in Tuscany. When Ludovic seized the regency, he was fain to court Lorenzo de Medici for support, and right willingly he agreed to change the estates of his brother's executioner for the lands which his father Francesco had obtained in gratuity from Florence. No, he is wealthy enough, and if he serves, it is but for honour or ambition."
"But how is he cousin to the King of France?" asked Ramiro; "it is a cousinship of much value as events are passing nowadays."
"Why, do you not recollect?" asked the old man, somewhat testily, "that Valentina Visconti married Louis, brother of Charles the Sixth of France, grandfather of the present Duke of Orleans, who will one day be King of France too, if the marriage of this young king be sterile. Three years have passed without any prospect of another heir, and then the future of this youth, is bright indeed."
"It is," answered Ramiro; and, after a moment's thought, he added, "I suppose you intend to marry him to your granddaughter?"
"Good sooth, they may do as they like, Ramiro," answered the old man. "I have made marriages for my children, and seen none of them happy or successful. Some remorse--at least regret--lies in the thought. I have but this child left for all kindred, and she shall make her marriage for herself. I may give advice, but will use no compulsion. In truth, I one time sought her union with Lorenzo, for he is not only full of promise, rich, noble, allied to royal houses both of France and England, but, with high spirit, there is allied in him a tenderness and love but rarely found. I marked it in him early, when he was page to that magnificent prince his godfather. The other lads, who loved or seemed to love him, were sure to prosper through his advocacy of merits less than his own. In furtherance of my wish, I had Bianca brought up with him in Florence; but, like an unskilful archer, I fear I have overshot my mark. The one is as a brother to the other; and I believe she would as soon marry her brother as Lorenzo. On his part I know not what the feelings are. He seems to love her well, but still with love merely fraternal, if one may judge by eyes and looks. I've seen more fire in one glance at Leonora than in poor Lorenzo's life was given to any other. But this unfortunate fight may breed mischief, I fear. If Ludovic sent the man to kill him, he will not soon be off the track of blood. Thank Heaven! he is soon going on."
"I think there is no fear," replied Ramiro, "unless Buondoni's blade was well anointed. Ludovic is too wise to follow him up too fiercely. We may run down our game eagerly enough upon our own lands, but do not carry the chase into the lands of another, Signor Rovera."
"As soon as Lorenzo can rejoin the King of France, he is safe," rejoined the Count, "and methinks, till then, I can take care of him. I know the look of a poisoner or assassin at a street's distance. Only let us look to his wound; I have known one of the same scratches end a good strong man's life in a few hours."
"So say I," answered Ramiro, "but I will go out and walk upon the terrace. I feel not disposed to sleep. If you should want me, call me in. I know something of poisons and their antidotes; I studied them when I was in Padua; for, in this life, no one knows how often one may be called upon to practise such chirurgy on his own behalf."
Thus saying, he left the Count de Rovera, and while the other, half dressed as he was, hurried up to Lorenzo's chamber, Ramiro, with his usual calm and almost noiseless step, went forth and walked the terrace up and down. For more than an hour he paced it from end to end, with all his thoughts turned inward. "A distant cousin of this King of France," he thought, "and almost german to his apparent heir! Wealthy himself and full of high courage! The lad must rise--ay, high, high! He has it in his look. Such are the men upon whose rising fortunes one should take hold, and be carried up with them. It was surely Leonora's voice I heard talking with him from the windows. If so, fortune has arranged all well; yet one must be careful--no too rapid steps. We fly from that which seeks us--run after that which flies. I will mark them both well, and shut my eyes, and let