“Surely. Oaths are binding—is it not so, duchess? Well, well, good captain, take a golden present.”
“No, I am not rich, yet rich enough.”
“Thou art hard to please, fair captain. At least a draught of wine thou’lt drink with me. At last thou dost agree. The duchess, here, for once, will e’en turn cup-bearer. Nay, nay, nay, duchess, do not leave us; generous-minded thou hast been to him, and now be more so. Rustighello, bring us wine.” He almost towered higher than his actual stature, as he looked upon the suffering woman. “Place the cups there—for me the silver one—the golden to the captain. Now, duchess, pour, pour. Nay, nay, duchess, the golden vase and golden cup do go together, and silver to the silver. Now, mark, good captain, the duchess will bear the cup to thee herself.”
Slowly she takes the cup, slowly she carries it to the captain. And thus he holds it, wondering at the kindness of these people, whom he has always thought so harsh and full of hate.
“Lady, I did not dream of pardon, and, methinks, my mother, whom I know doth pray for me, hath by her dearest prayers inclined thee and the duke to gracious mercy. I drink to the duke and duchess.”
Courteously the duke relieves the captain of the emptied goblet, lightly places it upon the table, then slowly creeping, like a reptile, he goes up to the duchess and says, softly, “Thou hast perchance somewhat to say to him. Permit me to retire.”
Why does a hopeful flush rush over her face? Why does she touch her bosom with a trembling hand? Why again does her countenance express so much emotion?
The young captain sees her accompany the duke to the doors. The duke bows to him profoundly, and then his back is turned. What next? She stands listening for a moment or so, then rushes madly towards the youth, who looks alarmedly about the room in which are present only their two selves.
As she runs to him she takes her hand from her breast. “Gennaro, thou art poisoned; do not move; quickly take this phial, and begone. A single drop will save thee.”
She stands a little away from him, and draws her dress on one side as she gives him the phial, so that it may hide her hand. When he has it, she presses his hand round it, so that it cannot be seen, and then she stands away from him.
What does he think as he stands there, now full of terror? Death faced on the battle field or on the scaffold may be met calmly; but to die poisoned, treacherously destroyed by a lie, it would make a god tremble. Fool, that for a moment he had trusted the court of Ferrara; and this antidote, perchance ’twas death; perchance the wine had not been poisoned! He had insulted her more deeply than he had the duke. Distrustful and terror-stricken, he stands hesitatingly.
“Drink, drink, he deemed thee his rival.”
As he looks on her face his heart turns towards her—he knows not why, but he believes her—he seems to think she wills that he shall believe her, he sees in the proud face nothing but love for him, not a guilty love. No, she looks, this terrible woman, as his mother might look upon him.
“Drink, save thyself—for—for thy mother’s sake.”
Ah! it has decided him, he raises the little bottle to his lips, and he is saved.
She knows now he will obey her.
She runs quickly to a secret door—for such a palace must have secret doors—and slides it open; by a gesture she bids him enter, presses his long hanging sleeve to her breast as he passes her—and he is gone. Then, as she closes the door, she is a lioness guarding her young. She folds her arms and stands there waiting. The gentleness of face which bade the soldier drink the antidote is gone. She stands there—awful, terrible, alone. No one now—no one now beyond the known and hated Lucrezia Borgia.
CHAPTER IV.
The night was come, and the Princess Negroni’s palace was a blaze of light. The grand ball spoken of by Orsini, was taking place, and all Ferrara was there. At one table, drinking and singing, were Orsini, Gennaro, and most of the young lords who were present at the unmasking of the Borgia at Venice. They were chiefly in the suite of the Venetian ambassador, and now, as on the night at Venice, they were all together, as friends should be.
“Would you believe it, Signors,” said the Orsini, gaily, “you see Captain Gennaro here by the merest chance. He was furiously preparing to fly us, when I came upon him. To Venice; would you believe it, he was departing for Venice. ‘What,’ said I, ‘did we not swear to live and die together? and now dost thou leave me?’ ’True,’ said he, ‘yet—’ But, Signoras, I would not let him go. ‘No, no,’ said I, ‘come thou to the fête with us, and I promise I will start with thee at dawn.’ So, behold, we are both here.”
Applause, followed by discussion of wines. One was for Madeira, another for Rhenish; but all were of one opinion, that every kind of wine was good.
The hours crept on, the guests departed, yet was the table of the Venetians occupied by the Venetians themselves, and by many ladies, amongst them the Princess.
Gubetta was there, and kept his watchful eye upon them all.
“I am tired already, and will go.”
“’Tis he again,” cried Orsini; “’tis Gennaro who spoke. Gennaro, hear my new ballad.”
“Ah, ah.”
“Who dareth to laugh at me?”
“I, Gubetta, and the rest of us. Thou art an eminent poet, truly.”
“An insult, Signors.”
“If laughing is insulting thee, I do; ah, ah.”
“Castilian renegade!”
“Roman bully!”
In a moment the place was in confusion. The women fled, the seats were overturned, and the Orsini and his enemy had armed themselves with knives from the table, for it was the wise custom to deliver arms at the door where feasts and rejoicings were held.
“Respect the Princess,” said one, holding back the Orsini.
“The guard will break open the doors,” said a second, restraining the Spaniard.
“To-morrow, Signors, to-morrow.”
“When you may fight with swords.”
“And not with knives like highwaymen.”
“Signors,” said the spy, Gubetta, now that his ruse for removing the women had succeeded. “Signors, I was wrong.”
“Truly; and to prove it, Orsini shall sing us his song.”
“Orsini will.”
“Wine, wine.”
“Truly, Signors, wine.” Thus Gubetta. “There, cup-bearer. My faith, Signors, this is Siracusa, the noblest drink. Let me pour for you.” And he took the tankard, no one wondering where the bearer of it sprung from. Nay, they took each a cup, and crowded round the Spanish spy, each calling laughingly for a share of the Siracusa.
“Nay, nay, Signors—there is enough for all.”
“Thou hast poured all out, Gubetta. Thou hast none—now drink with me, Orsini, from the same cup. ’Twill drown our quarrel.”
“Nay, Signor Orsini, as a punishment on me, drink thou the whole draught thyself.”
“Obedience is good-will. Behold—the cup is empty.”
“Orsini! Orsini! the song.”
“Here ’tis.”
“‘Oh,