'It did not occur to him that you would refuse. And, frankly, sirs, in refusing that which himself he has suggested, it would be courteous to supply your reasons, lest he regard it as a reflection upon himself.' 'The reason, sir, you have already been afforded,' Theodore answered. 'We are reluctant to expose our future sovereign to the perils of a campaign.' 'That assumes perils which could not exist for him. But I am perhaps presuming. I accept your reason, highness. It is idle to debate further upon a matter which is decided.' 'Quite idle,' Theodore agreed with him. 'That guarantee we cannot give.' 'And yet ...' began the Marquis of Carreto. The Regent interrupted him, for once he was without suavity. 'There is "no and yet" to that,' he snapped. Again the councillors looked at one another. They were growing uneasy. The immediate benefits, and the future glory of Montferrat which had been painted for them, were beginning to dissolve under their eyes like a mirage. In the awkward pause that followed, Bellarion guessed their minds. He rose. 'In this matter of determining the guarantee, you will prefer, no doubt, to deliberate without me.' He bowed in leave-taking. Then paused. 'It would be a sad thing, indeed, if a treaty so mutually desirable and so rich in promise to Montferrat should fail for no good reason.' He bowed again. 'To command, sirs.' One of the secretaries came to hold the door for him, and he passed out. An echo of the Babel that was loosed in that room on his departure reached him before he had gone a dozen paces. He smiled quietly as he sought his own apartments. He warmly approved himself. It had been shrewd of him to keep back all hint of the hostage until he stood before the Council. If he had breathed a suggestion of it in his preliminary talks with the Regent, he would have been dismissed at once. Now, however, Messer Theodore was committed to a battle in which his own conscience would fight against him, weakening him by fear of discovery of his true aims. 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth,' said Bellarion to himself. 'And you'll never stand to fight this out, my wicked one.' An hour and more went by before he was summoned again, to hear the decision of the Council. That decision is best given in Bellarion's own words as contained in the letter preserved for us in the Vatican Library which he wrote that same night to Facino Cane, one of the very few writings of his which are known to survive. It is couched in the pure and austere Lingua Tosca which Dante sanctioned, and it may be Englished as follows: