daggers flashing in the moonlight; but I had whipped out my great sword, and at the sight of it they melted away like early mists before the sun.
Then I turned to the girl. Her beauty stunned me. She was frail and willowy, with dark hair and eyes that shone like fire, lambent, smoldering. Her coloring was perfect, and the parted red lips gleamed enticingly like ripening peaches on a sun-kissed wall.
The color came and went in her cheeks as she thanked me for my assistance. Her name, she said, was Maria Stefano. She had been visiting a friend in Rome and was on her way home to Cesena when attacked. My heart throbbed with joy as I offered to escort her on her journey.
We talked—what did we not talk about?—that night and in the days that followed. I cannot tell the tale of my love; how I wooed and how—praise be to the Virgin!—I won. Yes; she the beautiful, the incomparable, loved me and we were as happy as Neapolitan boat-boys. Ah! how I wished then and in the ensuing days that I bore a name less known, less hated! How could I tell her my name? Had I done so she would have screamed in affright and buried her head; for did not everybody say that I gave people the "evil eye"?
WE WERE to be wed within three weeks when, one day, old Tomaso brought me word that the Borgia was on his way to Rome.
When Cesare came he was in one of his most jovial moods. He sent for me at once and I noticed the smile at the corners of the hard, straight lips. His eyes, too, dark and piercing, seemed softer, and the heavy chin, rugged as a defiant rock, was molded into more sensuous lines than usual.
"Well, Ramiro," he said, "how is Rome?"
"Hot, my lord," I answered, "hot and dull."
"Hot weather must suit you then, my Ramiro," he retorted, "for you look very happy. What have you been doing, man? That long visage of yours is brighter than I have ever seen it. Out with the tale. Those painted fops of Lucrezia have bored me to death, the cursed poltroons."
His anxiety on my behalf flattered me; but first I must know the result of his own schemes to drive the French out of our beloved Italy.
"Won't they help us, my lord?"
"No," said Cesare, shortly, and the thundercloud began to mar the soft lines of his face.
He pondered a little.
"Let that wait," he cried at last. "I want to hear your tale, Ramiro. You have one to tell, I know."
Then, fool that I was, thrice-accursed fool, I blurted out the tale of my love for Maria. I raved to him, who would have slain his own father for a pretty face, of her matchless beauty, her peachlike skin, her raven hair. The good God should have killed me before I had begun my tale; but then, I loved him, and few could resist Cesare when he was jovial.
Whilst I was praising her beauty, Cesare screened his face from my eyes; but when I had finished he looked up and, with one of his rare, winning smiles, said:
"I shall lose you, Ramiro."
"No, no, my lord," I answered; "I will never leave you."
"Perhaps so, my Ramiro; but you love her better."
I could make no answer.
He smiled again, but sadly this time.
"All desert me," he said; "but you have been faithful. Show me your future bride, Ramiro, and I myself will come to the wedding."
I was speechless with joy.
