“My first duty is to God,” she answered; and to that pitiable answer there was nothing to be rejoined.
So I turned my shoulder to her and stood waiting, Fra Gervasio beside me, clenching his hands in his impotence and mute despair. And then an approaching clank of mail heralded the coming of the captain.
Rinolfo held the door, and Cosimo d'Anguissola entered with a firm, proud tread, two of his men, following at his heels.
He wore a buff-coat, under which no doubt there would be a shirt of mail; his gorget and wristlets were of polished steel, and his headgear was a steel cap under a cover of peach-coloured velvet. Thigh-boots encased his legs; sword and dagger hung in the silver carriages at his belt; his handsome, aquiline face was very solemn.
He bowed profoundly to my mother, who rose to respond, and then he flashed me one swift glance of his piercing eyes.
“I deplore my business here,” he announced shortly. “No doubt it will be known to you already.” And he looked at me again, allowing his eyes to linger on my face.
“Then we had best be going, for I understand that none could be less welcome here than I. Yet in this, Madonna, let me assure you that there is nothing personal to myself. I am the slave of my office. I do but perform it.”
“So much protesting where no doubt has been expressed,” said Fra Gervasio, “in itself casts a doubt upon your good faith. Are you not Cosimo d'Anguissola--my lord's cousin and heir?”
“I am,” said he, “yet that has no part in this, sir friar.”
“Then let it have part. Let it have the part it should have. Will you bear one of your own name and blood to the gallows? What will men say of that when they perceive your profit in the deed?”
Cosimo looked him boldly between the eyes, his hawk-face very white.
“Sir priest, I know not by what right you address me so. But you do me wrong. I am the Podesta of Piacenza bound by an oath that it would dishonour me to break; and break it I must or else fulfil my duty here. Enough!” he added, in his haughty, peremptory fashion. “Ser Agostino, I await your pleasure.”
“I will appeal to Rome,” cried Fra Gervasio, now beside himself with grief.
Cosimo smiled darkly, pityingly. “It is to be feared that Rome will turn a deaf ear to appeals on behalf of the son of Giovanni d'Anguissola.”