Love-at-Arms | Page 7

my lord! Let your own good sense tell you whether an honest man
need scruple to depose a prince whose throne knows no defence beyond
the hired protection of fifty foreign spears."
A silence followed that impassioned speech. Lodi remained standing,
the others sat, their eager glances turned upon the Count, their ears
anxiously alert for his reply. Thus they remained for a brief spell,
Aquila himself so still that he scarcely seemed to breathe.
He sat, gripping the arms of his chair, his head fallen forward until his
chin rested on his breast, a frown darkening his lofty brow. And whilst
they waited for his answer, a mighty battle was fought out within his
soul. The power so suddenly, so unexpectedly, thrust within his reach,
and offered him if he would but open his hands to grasp it, dazzled him
for one little moment. As in a flash he saw himself Lord of Babbiano.
He beheld a proud career of knightly deeds that should cause his name
and that of Babbiano to ring throughout the length and breadth of Italy.
From the obscure state that it was, his patriotism and his skill as a
condottiero should render it one of the great Italian powers--the rival of
Florence, of Venice or Milan. He had a vision of widened territories,
and of neighbouring lords becoming vassals to his might. He saw
himself wresting Romagna mile by mile from the sway of the ribald
Borgia, hunting him to the death as he was wont to hunt the boar in the
marshes of Commachio, or driving him into the very Vatican to seek
shelter within his father's gates--the last strip of soil that he would leave
him to lord it over. He dreamt of a Babbiano courted by the great
republics, and the honour of its alliance craved by them that they might
withstand the onslaughts of French and Spaniard. All this he saw in that
fleeting vision of his, and Temptation caught his martial spirit in a grip
of steel. And then another picture rose before his eyes. What would he
do in times of peace? His was a soul that pined in palaces. He was born
to the camp, and not to the vapid air of courts. In exchange for this

power that was offered him what must he give? His glorious liberty.
Become their lord in many things, to be their slave in more. Nominally
to rule, but actually to be ruled, until, should he fail to do his rulers' will,
there would be some night another meeting such as this, in which men
would plot to encompass his downfall and to supplant him as he was
invited to supplant Gian Maria. Lastly, he bethought him of the man
whose power he was bidden to usurp. His own cousin, his father's
sister's son, in whose veins ran the same blood as in his own.
He raised his head at last, and met those anxious faces on which the
fitful light was casting harsh shadows. The pale ghost of a smile
hovered for a second on the corners of his stern mouth.
"I thank you, sirs, for the honour you have done me," he made answer
slowly, "an honour of which I fear I am all unworthy."
In strenuous chorus their voices rose to contradict him.
"At least, then, an honour which I cannot accept."
There was a moment's silence, and their faces from eager that they had
been, grew downcast to the point of sullenness.
"But why, my lord?" cried old Fabrizio at last, his arms outstretched
towards the Count, his voice quivering with intensity. "Santissima
Vergine! Why?"
"Because--to give you but one reason out of many--the man you ask me
to overthrow and supplant is of my own blood." And but that his tone
was calm they might have held that he rebuked them.
"I had thought," hazarded seriously the gay Fanfulla, "that with such a
man as your Excellency, patriotism and the love of Babbiano would
have weighed even more than the ties of blood."
"And you had thought well, Fanfulla. Did I not say that the reason I
gave you was but one of many? Tell me, sirs, what cause have you to
believe that I should rule you wisely and well? It so chances that in the

crisis now threatening Babbiano a captain is needed for its ruler. But let
not this delude you, for there may come a season in the fortunes of the
State when such a man might be as unfitted for dominion as is the
present Duke in this. What then? A good knight-errant is an indifferent
courtier and a bad statesman. Lastly, my friends--since you must know
all that is in my heart--there remains the fact that I love myself a little. I