“Who, then, is this woman?” said Gennaro; “dare I hear?”
“Gennaro, do not believe them; they mistake me.”
“Oh! no mistake, lady,” cried out Orsini; “remove thy mask. She is the woman who hath shamed all women; she is the woman whom all ages shall abhor; whose breath is poison, whose look is death, whom Heaven pities too much to destroy.”
“Spare me! spare me!”
“As thou hast spared.”
“Be merciful; there is yet time. Gennaro, see, I cling to thee; forbid them. Be merciful, signors! spare me!”
“As thou hast spared.”
Then the Orsini tore the mask from her face.
“Behold her—Lucrezia Borgia.”
What! is this the gentle face that wept over the sleeping youth? Look on it! like a demon’s as she springs from her knees—defiant, fearless, no longer suppliant; degraded, but not shamed. “Beware!” she cries, as the gentlemen shun her, turning away from her—as Gennaro turns from her. “Beware, you who have shown no mercy! beware!”
CHAPTER II.
In Ferrara. No longer in the city of waters, and palaces, and gay feastings. In Ferrara, where the Borgias reign. Where the cruel Duke Alfonzo reigns, where also his cruel wife is Duchess, the terrible Lucrezia Borgia.
See, in this grand square, there is the palace of the duke. Mark his arms carved over the gateway, the awful name Borgia swelling from the stone beneath.
The new Venetian ambassador with his suite had arrived.
It is night-time, and plot and murder are awake.
Look! is not this the figure of the tall, proud-looking man who watched the Borgia from a gondola in Venice. And the man with him, ’tis he who told of Gennaro.
They are walking slowly across the square.
“So, then, he has arrived in the ambassador’s suite.”
“Surely; I have been his shadow. That house is his abode.”
“Ah, she would fain have him near the palace.”
“And in it, Signor, if Gubetta speaks the truth.”
“It shall be his tomb.”
“The Signor hears that music, ’tis from his house. The youth makes merry with his friends. ’Tis just the same each night, they only sleep at dawn.”
“Let him take a long farewell of them, ’tis the last time they shall carouse with him.”
With angry strides he went up to the ducal house. No need to knock. Too secret-loving was this man for that. Slowly a small door opened, and he and his companion entered.
Far different from these two gloomy men were the half dozen laughing youths who now came trooping away from Gennaro’s wine cups. He came from the house with them, willing as host to show he did not love to part with them.
“Good bye, good bye, dear friends.”
“Good bye Gennaro,” cried the others; and Orsini added, “Thou hast the gravest face amongst us, thou art ever sad.”
“No, no.” But, truth to tell, his thoughts were ever with his unknown mother.
“Now I tell thee that this night thou shalt be gay. The Princess Negroni gives a ball to-night, where a thousand beauties shall be found, and thou must come, Gennaro. And if any one of you be not invited, let him speak. He will speak well, for on my word, I keep the ball-room door.”
Said they, one after the other.—“I am bidden, and I, and I.”
“And I also, Signors,” said a fresh voice.
“What, Signor Bevarana!”
“Or Gubetta,” said Orsini.
“That man seems every where; indeed, I do begin to doubt him,” said Gennaro, softly to Orsini.
“Oh, fear not,” said the other, carelessly. “He is a man of pleasure, like ourselves, and fain not be alone if he can find him company. Thou art still sad, Gennaro.”
“Oh,” cried one laughingly. “Perchance the Borgia has enchanted him.”
“That woman’s name again. I swear, Signors, I hate the sound of it.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed another. “How darst thou speak thus so near her palace?”
“Her palace. I would I could brand her forehead, as I can and will the wall that bears her name.”
As they wondered what he meant, he unbuckled his sword, took hold of it as it was sheathed by the point, and running to the palace door, clambered from boss to boss of the carved stone work till he got near the name “Borgia,” jutting from the face of the doorway. Then he raised the sword, beat its hilt down upon the “B” commencing the name, and in a few moments the letter, splintered to fragments, lay upon the ground.
So those who stood below read on the proud door, and beneath the proud arms of the Borgias, the meaning word “Orgia.”
“Great heaven, Gennaro!” Even the brave Orsini was frightened, and the others looked at each other in terrible inquiry, as they read the terrible truth—“Orgia.”
Said Gubetta, whom they had insolently called Beverana, “In faith, that jest may cost thee dear.”
“In faith, I can pay my debts, Signor.”
“See, Gennaro, there are eyes watching us,” said Orsini; not meaning Gubetta, but two men, dressed in the flowing black cloaks of the time, like shrouds for sin, who met some little distance off in the square, and seemed to defy each other.
The youth Gennaro made no reply to the warning, but gaily saying “good bye, good bye;” turned to his house, and entered it, while the roysterers dispersed in different directions.
The men of the cloaks still seemed to defy each other furtively; still remained; not standing quiet, and yet not walking with a purpose. The sounds of the tripping footsteps dying away, these two men approached each other, each with his arms wrapped in his cloak, and, perhaps, each with his right hand on his sword.
“Why does the Signor wait here?”
“The Signor is waiting for thy going. And Signor himself?”—
“Is waiting to see thee leave this square.”
“Prythee, why art thou here?”
“Perhaps the young Venetian who lives here, and for whom thou art waiting!”
“I?”
“Yes, where goest thou with him?”
“Stand back, in the name of the duchess.”
“Stand back thyself, in the name of the DUKE.”
“The duchess is powerful!”
“The duke is death.”
“Now who shall conquer?”
“We will see.”
A sharp, yet low whistle, from the lips of this last speaker, who stood beside the duke, when he watched his duchess away there in Venice, and watched her from a gondola. Barely had the whistle whispered through the air, than a score of soft-footed men, each like each, enveloped in a shroud-like cloak, surrounded him who had spoken by the duchess.
“Beware—the