'Now his behests are upon me, and they shall be obeyed as if he still lived.' 'What is there in his behests against ... against what I was offering? Am I not commended to you by his testament? Am I not a part of his legacy to you?' 'The service of you is; and your loyal servant, madonna, you shall ever find me.' She turned aside with a little gesture of irritation, and remained silent, thoughtful. A sleek secretary broke in upon them. The Count of Pavia commanded the Lord Bellarion's presence in the library. A courier had just arrived from Milan with grave news. 'Say to his highness that I come.' The secretary withdrew. 'You give me leave, madonna?' She stood leaning sideways against the heavy table, her face averted. 'Aye, you may go.' Her voice rasped. But he waited yet a moment. 'The sword, madonna? Will you not arm me with your own hands for your service?' She turned her head to look at him again, and there was now a curl of disdain on her pale lips. 'I thought you looked askance on symbols. Was not that your profession?' She paused, but, without waiting for his answer, added: 'Take up your sword, yourself, you that are so fully master of your own destinies.' And on that she turned and went, trailing her funereal draperies over the gay mosaics of that patterned floor. He remained where she left him until she had passed out of that great hall and the door had closed. Then, at last, he fetched a sigh and went to restore his blade to its scabbard. His thoughts were on Facino hardly cold in the grave, on this widow who had so shamelessly wooed him, yet in terms which demanded as a condition the satisfaction of her inordinate ambition; and lastly on that obese young Prince who waited for him. And in the mirror of his mind he saw a reflection of a scene now some months old. He saw again the glance of those beady, lecherous eyes lambent about Facino's Countess. Inspiration came to him of how best he might gratify her vast ambition, her greed of greatness. Her suggestion to him had been that he should make her Duchess of Milan, and Duchess of Milan he would make her yet. On that half-ironic thought he came to the library where the Prince waited. Filippo Maria was seated at a table near one of the windows. Spread before him were some parchments, writing-materials, and a horn of unicorn that was almost a yard long, of solid ivory, one of the library's most treasured possessions. The Prince was more than usually pallid, his glance unsteady, his manner nervous and agitated. Perfunctorily he made the inquiries concerning the obsequies of Facino which courtesy demanded. He reiterated excuses already made for his own absence from the ceremony, an absence really based on resentment of the yoke which Facino had imposed upon him. That done, he picked up a parchment from the table.