The Strolling Saint | Page 7

the revolt that he led he had not reckoned upon the might and
vigour of the new Farnese Pontiff. He had conceived, perhaps, that one
pope must be as supine as another, and that Paul III would prove no
more redoubtable than Clement VIII. To his bitter cost did he discover
his mistake. Beyond the Po he was surprised by the Pontifical army
under Ferrante Orsini, and there his force was cut to pieces.
My father himself escaped and with him some other gentlemen of
Piacenza, notably one of the scions of the great house of Pallavicini,
who took a wound in the leg which left him lame for life, so that ever

after he was known as Pallavicini il Zopo.
They were all under the pope's ban, outlaws with a price upon the head
of each, hunted and harried from State to State by the papal emissaries,
so that my father never more dared set foot in Mondolfo, or, indeed,
within the State of Piacenza, which had been rudely punished for the
insubordination it had permitted to be reared upon its soil.
And Mondolfo went near to suffering confiscation. Assuredly it would
have suffered it but for the influence exerted on my mother's and my
own behalf by her brother, the powerful Cardinal of San Paulo in
Carcere, seconded by that guelphic cousin of my father's, Cosimo
d'Anguissola, who, after me, was heir to Mondolfo, and had, therefore,
good reason not to see it confiscated to the Holy See.
Thus it fell out that we were left in peace and not made to suffer from
my father's rebellion. For that, he himself should suffer when taken.
But taken he never was. From time to time we had news of him. Now
he was in Venice, now in Milan, now in Naples; but never long in any
place for his safety's sake. And then one night, six years later, a scarred
and grizzled veteran, coming none knew whence, dropped from
exhaustion in the courtyard of our citadel, whither he had struggled.
Some went to minister to him, and amongst these there was a groom
who recognized him.
"It is Messer Falcone!" he cried, and ran to bear the news to my mother,
with whom I was at table at the time. With us, too, was Fra Gervasio,
our chaplain.
It was grim news that old Falcone brought us. He had never quitted my
father in those six weary years of wandering until now that my father
was beyond the need of his or any other's service.
There had been a rising and a bloody battle at Perugia, Falcone
informed us. An attempt had been made to overthrow the rule there of
Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Castro, the pope's own abominable son.
For some months my father had been enjoying the shelter of the
Perugians, and he had repaid their hospitality by joining them and

bearing arms with them in the ill-starred blow they struck for liberty.
They had been crushed in the encounter by the troops of Pier Luigi, and
my father had been among the slain.
And well was it for him that he came by so fine and merciful an end,
thought I, when I had heard the tale of horrors that had been undergone
by the unfortunates who had fallen into the hands of Farnese.
My mother heard him to the end without any sign of emotion. She sat
there, cold and impassive as a thing of marble, what time Fra
Gervasio--who was my father's foster-brother, as you shall presently
learn more fully--sank his head upon his arm and wept like a child to
hear the piteous tale of it. And whether from force of example, whether
from the memories that came to me so poignantly in that moment of a
fine strong man with a brown, shaven face and a jovial, mighty voice,
who had promised me that one day we should ride together, I fell
a-weeping too.
When the tale was done, my mother coldly gave orders that Falcone be
cared for, and went to pray, taking me with her.
Oftentimes since have I wondered what was the tenour of her prayers
that night. Were they for the rest of the great turbulent soul that was
gone forth in sin, in arms against the Holy Church, excommunicate and
foredoomed to Hell? Or were they of thanksgiving that at last she was
completely mistress of my destinies, her mind at rest, since no longer
need she fear opposition to her wishes concerning me? I do not know,
nor will I do her the possible injustice that I should were I to guess.

CHAPTER II
GINO FALCONE
When I think of my mother now I do not see her as she appeared in any
of the scenes